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zAn Old-Fashioned 

F^omance 



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4 















AN OLD-FASHIONED 
ROMANCE 


BY 

ALMA NEWTON 

11 

AUTHOR OF 

“Dreaming True ” “The Love Letters of a Mystic” Etc. 



NEW YORK 

MINTON, BALCH & COMPANY 


1924. 








Copyright, 1924, by 

MINTON, BALCH & COMPANY 



Printed in the United States of America by 

J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK 


■MAV j 7 JS24 J 



©C1A792455^ 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Everton. I 

II. Morning. 9 

III. Rosa Gordon. 21 

IV. News.32 

V. War.39 

VI. The Magnolia Tree ... 52 

VII. A Wedding.62 

VIII. The Symbol.68 

IX. Despair.72 

X. A Lady with a Fan .... 77. 

XI. Letters.85 

XII. Laura.109 

XIII. A January Night . . . . 112 

XIV. Jasmine ....... 129 

XV. Roses. 145 

[v] 

















Contents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. Amaryllis.152 

XVII. Louisiana. 160 

XVIII. A Tremendous Problem . > 177 

XIX. Troy.. . 192 

XX. Realization. 201 

XXI. Memories. 221 

XXII. The Call of the East . . . 231 


[Vi] 












CHAPTER I. 
EVERTON. 


“Tell me, gentle traveller, thou 

Who hast wandered far and wide, 

Seen the sweetest roses blow 
And the brightest rivers glide; 

Say, of all thine eyes have seen, 

Which the fairest land has been?” 

—From the Persian. 



LGERNON EMMETT 
NICHOL, a little boy of 
twelve, drove through the first 
gate of the plantation known 
as “Everton,” in Jefferson County, Mis¬ 
sissippi. He threw a wistful glance at 
the sombre trees, the long drive leading 
up to the very high hill, upon which the 
dignified, white house was situated. 

He shuddered a bit and said to his 
small servant, “I don’t like it much. It’s 
too cold. Looks like a big tomb, and the 
trees are so solemn. They are aweful, I 
think.” 

“Yeh, they’re awful,” answered the 
faithful little Dick. “Not a bit like de 
trees in Louisiany. And they ain’t no 




2 


An Old-Fashioned Romance 


palmettos. And I’se sho they’se ghosts 
hidden bellin’ those big trees.” 

“There are no ghosts,” said the little 
gentleman to his servant, “and you don’t 
understand that I did not say the house 
was ‘awful,’ meaning ‘terrible’; I said 
‘aweful.’ There is a difference, you 
know.” 

“Yessir,” said the little servant, “I 
knows that you sticks on an ‘e’ and makes 
an awful diffrence in a word now and 
then. But I on’y goes by the sound.” 
“Does you hear the dogs, Buddie ?”contin¬ 
ued the little negro. “I don’ like dogs.” 

“Dogs won’t hurt you, if you keep 
quiet,” said the little master. This he 
said in a superior and imperious tone. 
“And don’t call me Buddie; call me 
Marse Nichol. I’m thirteen soon, and 
my guardian will not approve of your 
manners.” 

“Yessir,” said the little negro. “And 
I’se awful scared o’ yo’ guardian. The 
name sounds awful. ‘Wade Hampton 
Harrison’—what a awful name.” 

“It’s a fine name,” answered the young 
master, “and the lady, his wife, is my 




Everton 3 

cousin—Mary Nichol Harrison, from 
the Eastern Shore.” 

“Eastern Sho’e! Wha’s that, Marse 
Nichol?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, but it’s something 
to do with Maryland and must be nice.” 

“Yessir, I’se shuh it’s nice, but jes’ the 
same, I wish we could turn right ’round 
and go on back to Louisiany. I would 
swim the Miss’ippi to get ther’. I never 
seed such a long drive. Ain’t we neber 
goin’ to get to the house, Buddie—I mean 
Marse Alge’non?” 

“Ask the driver how far it is,” an¬ 
swered the young master. The little 
negro kept quiet. “I say, ask the driver 
how far it is.” 

“I’se scared, honey—Buddie—Marse 
Algy—you ax him.” 

“Oh, very well,” said Algernon. “How 
far is it, Uncle, to the house?” 

“Half a mile, sir,” answered the old 
negro driver. “It’s a strange house. It 
seems to get farther away as you get closer 
to it.” 

“You hear that, Buddie?” said the lit¬ 
tle negro. “It’s haunted, I knowed it.” 





4 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Be quiet. You sound so ignorant. Al¬ 
ways talking about ghosts and haunts and 
things.” 

“The master,” continued the old negro 
driver, “takes particular pains to have 
this drive long and straight, and had the 
trees cut so as to make it very grand.” 

“You mean mysterious,” said the young 
master. “It’s very handsome, I think.” 

“Oh, yes, everything’s nice here, sir. 
Marse Wade is terrible particular about 
everything.” 

“I knowed it,” said the little valet un¬ 
der his breath. “I felt it, and I’se scared 
to death. I don’t like that awful soundin’ 
name, Wade Hampton Harrison! If he 
got mad-” 

“Be quiet,” said young Algernon, “and 
don’t talk so much.” 

The old negro driver reached for his 
whip, and touched the horses lightly. In 
a minute they were going at a merry pace 
up the long, straight drive, drawing 
closer to the white house, deeply set in 
trees. 

“I never like straight and narrow 





Everton 5 

paths. I’se heard about them all my 
life,” said the little negro. 

“Be quiet,” said the young master. 

“Yessir, but I wish I was back with 
the palmettos, the red bushes, the berries, 
the nice black dirt. I lobes Louisiany, 
but I don’ like this Miss’ippi.” 

“You haven’t been here long enough to 
know,” answered his master. 

“Yes, I has, honey—Buddie—I means 
Marse Algy. I didn’t like it from the 
time we struck those blackberry bushes 
and dat sandy hill just dis side de Mis¬ 
s’ippi River.” The little negro crouched 
down in the cushions. “Ain’t you scared 
a little bit o’ that Wade Hampton Har¬ 
rison?” 

“Of course not, and there he is now, 
standing in the door. We are almost 
there.” 

“Giddap,” said the driver, and touched 
the horses again, as the last gate was 
opened and they drove proudly up to the 
door. 

A stately figure stood in the door, 
then solemnly walked toward the steps 





6 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


and stood again, awaiting his young 
guest. 

The old driver hopped off the seat, 
opened the carriage door, and made a 
motion for the little negro to get out and 
assist his young master, but the young 
servant was so frightened that he 
crouched in the cushions and stared 
blankly with his mouth wide open, gazing 
at the figure at the head of the steps. 
Young Algernon looked at him reproach¬ 
fully, stepped down out of the carriage, 
and walked up the steps to meet his 
guardian. 

The little gentleman was dressed in 
black velvet, with a large white collar, 
upon which his dark brown curls rested 
lovingly. 

Mr. Wade Hampton Harrison held 
out his hand, and said, “How do you do, 
sir.” 

“How do you do,” answered young 
Algernon, quickly. 

“I’m very well, thank you,”—with em¬ 
phasis on the thank you. “Your Cousin 
Mary will be here in a moment.” 

Just then a very tall young woman 





Everton Ji 

came forward, and without saying, “How 
do you do,” said, “Well, little boy, you 
are here at last, at home, at Everton.” 

“Yes, Cousin Mary,” answered young 
Algernon, holding out his hand, “It is 
very wonderful.” 

“I am glad to see you, Algernon,” con¬ 
tinued his cousin. “You must be happy 
here with Cousin Mary and Cousin 
Wade,” she added tenderly. 

He turned in time to catch a deter¬ 
mined look in his guardian’s eyes, who 
said abruptly, “Mary, have old Mandy 
cut off those curls at once. He is twelve 
years old, you know.” 

“They are too beautiful, Wade, to be 
cut,—and his mother loved them so.” 

At the mention of his mother, little 
Algernon suppressed a sob, but said 
briefly, “Cousin Wade is right, Cousin 
Mary. I am too old for curls.” 

“Of course,” added his guardian, and 
turned to the little valet. “Take your 
master’s things upstairs. Follow Ben.” 

Ben, black, gray and smiling, led the 
way up the long stairway. The little 





8 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


valet followed, looking back lovingly at 
his young master. 

“I knowed dey do somethin’ cruel right 
away,—cuttin’ off his curls, the beauti- 
fullest thing on him, too. Dat Wade 
Hampton Harrison, I knowed he’d do 
somethin’ like that, and this place is 
haunted, too. I’se always right about 
feelin’ things, and I’se sho be’n feelin’ 
things today.” 

“Come along,” said Ben. “You can’t 
be so slow around heah, and talk so much, 
and be careful ’cause Marse Wade no¬ 
tices everything.” 

“I sho will be careful. I don’t feel 
things for nuthin’. I hope he be good to 
Buddie. He feels awful cut up about his 
mother dyin’ so sudden, and his father jus’ 
a yeah ago. Buddie, he cries a lot in 
his sleep, but not in the daytime. I’se got 
to watch Buddie. That’s the last thing 
the old missus said to me. Here, with 
no father, with that fierce lookin’ man 
with de awful name to boss him ’round. 

I can see Miss Mary have no say with that 
man. Didn’t I tell I’se scared to death of 
dat Wade Hampton Harrison!” 





CHAPTER II. 
MORNING. 



“To have love is to work miracles.” 

—Michael Fairless. 

HE next morning Ben knocked 
on the door lightly and said, 
“Marse Algy, breakfast is 
ready.” He stuck his head in 
the door and found Algernon sound 
asleep, with a great tear on his long lashes. 
“Marse Algy,” he said tenderly, “wake 
up. I called you befo’e. It’s breakfast 
time. Marse Wade will be waitin’ for 
you.” This he said nervously. 

Slowly awakening, and dashing the 
large tear from his lashes, Algernon 
jumped out of bed and said, “Thank you, 
I’ll be there in a minute. Where is 
Dick?” 

“Dick—Dick who?” said Ben. 

“My servant,” answered Algernon, 
with emphasis on the my. 

“Oh,” said Ben, “dat nigger—dat 
scarry, good for nuthin’ nigger, he’s 






io An Old-Fashioned Romance 


down in de yard sittin’ on the wood pile 
cryin’.” 

“Crying—what’s the matter?” 

“He’s cryin’ ’cause your curls have 
gone. Said someone ought to cry. He’s 
makin’ a real funeral out of the curls. 
Asked Miss Mary to let him bury dem in 
a box under the magnolia tree, but she’s 
keeping them locked up. Fore the Lawd, 
she’s crying, too. Said it was awful 
cruel for Marse Wade to have dem cut 
off so sudden like.” 

Dressing hurriedly, the young gentle¬ 
man walked proudly down the long 
stairs, into the hall and then into the 
dining room. 

“Sorry to be late, Cousin Wade, but I 
over-slept.” 

“Quite all right this time,” said his 
cousin. “You must have been tired. A 
long drive.” 

“It’s very beautiful here,” added 
young Algernon hurriedly. 

“Yes,” said his cousin. 

Sitting at the head of the long table, 
Wade Hampton Harrison looked very 





Morning 


II 


forbidding and severe. Algernon looked 
around for his cousin Mary. 

“Your Cousin Mary will see you after 
breakfast. I wanted to see you alone, and 
talk about your studies. Do you know 
any Latin?” 

“A little,” answered the young man. 

“Know any mathematics?” 

“A little.” 

“Any history?” 

“Oh, a lot.” 

“Yes,” said the severe cousin, “what 
history?” 

“All history, but especially about Na¬ 
poleon Bonaparte. Do you like Napo¬ 
leon too, Cousin Wade?” 

“Greatest man that ever lived,” 
answered his cousin. “The Code Napo¬ 
leon. Do you know what that is, young 
man?” 

“Oh, yes, Cousin Wade, but it’s the 
battles I love so.” 

“Of course,” answered the cousin. “I 
see that we’re going to be friends.” 

Serving him quail, he touched a bell 
and said to the waitress, “Bring Master 
Algernon some waffles. See that they 





12 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


are hot and a lot of syrup—Louisiana 
syrup. This young gentleman belongs to 
Louisiana, the Napoleon country.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the waitress. 

“Stick to your own country, my boy, 
to your own ideas, ideals, and do not pre¬ 
tend to like this hill country. Stick to 
the flat country. It is just as nice as this, 
and your father was an early settler in 
Louisiana; came from the Eastern Shore 
of Maryland, you know. Always be 
yourself, my boy, be natural. You can 
afford to be natural. The house here, the 
horses, the dogs, the servants, all are 
yours. You can have anything you like. 
But never tell me a lie. I make no dis¬ 
tinction between a story and a lie. Any 
form of deception is immoral and ungen- 
tlemanly. I can forgive anything except 
a lie. My people never lie—the Wade 
Hampton Harrisons,” he said proudly, j 
“I am sure that yours do not either, but 
it is a good way to begin life with an 
absolute intolerance of any form of 
hypocrisy.” 

Just then the little valet stuck his head 
in the door to see if his young master was 






Morning 


13 


all right;—just in time to hear the word 
“lie” and that name, which had fright¬ 
ened him so. He took one look, and then 
stepped out of the room, like a frightened 
animal. 

After breakfast the young master fol¬ 
lowed him into the yard. “You’re a 
coward, Dick. Why did you run? I 
would never run.” 

“Co’se, Honey, you’se white, and I’se 
black—dat’s de diffurence. I’se come 
from the runnin’ kind. I’se just natuly 
scarry. But don’t you ever be scared. I’d 
kill anybody what hurt you. Dat’s what 
I’se heah for.” 

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” 
answered the young master. “My cousin 
is very kind.” 

“You mean fierce. He’s fierce. I ain’t 
nebber goin’ to make him angry, believe 
me. And don’t you make him angry, 
either. I tell you I’se jest scared o’ de 
whole place. It’s too big and sternlike. 
Did you ever see such a big dinin’room, 
and the bedrooms and de awful lookin’ 
furniture and such trees and such a big 
hall? I feels my hair stand straight up 





14 dn Old-Fashioned Romance 


on ends when I cross that hall. I prays 
all the way, but I feels the ghost followin’ 
close behin’ me. I tells you, Buddie, the 
place is haunted. Let’s run off and go 
back to Louisiany. Go back to the red 
trees and the palmetters, where a feller 
can hide if things get after him. An’ you 
don’t look natural with yo’ curls gone. 
Everythin’ is strange here, even you.” 

In an hour the horses were brought 
around to the front door and young Al¬ 
gernon rode off into the fields with his 
little valet following closely behind him. 
A negro servant carried the bird sacks, 
the guns and some sandwiches for the 
day. 

“I likes deer huntin’ much better, don’ 
you, Honey? But dar ain’t no deer heah. 
Dar ain’t nuthin’ I like.” 

“Oh, it’s very pretty, I think,” said the 
young master. “Watch your rein, or 
you’ll go off in the briar bushes again.” 

“Mind yo’ own rein, Buddie, or you’ll 
fall off that big horse. You ain’t used to 
ridin’ big horses.” 

“Be quiet, and don’t tell everything 
you know. It’s stupid.” 





Morning 15 


“Yes, Buddie, but suppose you faint 
like you did back in Louisiany.” 

“Oh, I’m all right,” said young Alger¬ 
non. 

There was a soft south breeze, a burst 
of color—red gold and brown of every 
description. They rode on into the fields. 
They passed under a large walnut tree. 
A nut fell directly upon the little negro’s 
head. 

“My Gawd,” he said under his breath, 
“What am dat, Buddie?” 

“Oh, it’s only a nut. Be quiet. We’ll 
soon be ready to fire. Tomorrow we’re 
going fox hunting, you know.” 

All that day they rode through the 
fields, returning in the dusk with quail, 
most of which the negro servant had shot. 

In a short while dinner was announced. 
A long table was covered with flowers, 
Venetian glass and Sheffield silver and 
tall candelabra. It stood in the center of 
the room, while the several side-boards, 
as they were called in those days, were 
heaped with every imaginable flower, 





16 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


fresh from the hot-house. The large de¬ 
canters sparkled with wines and Ken¬ 
tucky whiskey. A servant continuously 
prepared mint juleps, which were served 
to each gentleman, while the ladies were 
given a small glass of sherry, with a rose 
leaf in the glass. These were the cock¬ 
tails of the old-fashioned days. 

The meats were not served, as in these 
days, but brought on the table and placed 
in front of the host, while he carved skil¬ 
fully, and at the same time indulged in 
repartee. 

The dinner was more of a banquet—a 
feast—than anything else, and the stories 
that were told at the table were of unique 
value. 

Young Algernon was again late in get¬ 
ting to the dining room. He slipped off 
his riding habit and put on his black vel¬ 
vet suit again. He walked down the 
long stairway to the hall, which led to 
the dining room. He walked in and 
asked to be excused, not knowing 
whether he was to sit at the large table 
or not. One of the gentlemen at the table 
turned and looked at him, saying to his 





Morning 17 

host, “Is this the little gentleman from 
Louisiana?” 

“Yes,” said the host. 

Calling Algernon to his side, he said 
“This is Mr. Green—Mr. Payne Green.” 
Mr. Green held out his hand and said 
“I knew your Mother. She was very 
beautiful. I visited in her home and she 
came from my beautiful country, the 
Eastern Shore of Maryland.” 

“Yes,” said the little man, and turned 
his head suddenly so that his new friend 
would not see the tears which quickly 
rushed into his eyes at the mention of 
his mother. 

“Cousin Wade,” he continued, “am I 
to sit at the big table with you, or shall 
I wait?” 

“Of course,” he said, “you are much 
too grown up and gallant to dine with 
the children.” 

“Nice boy, is he not?” continued the 
cousin, looking at Mr. Green. 

“He is splendid,” said Mr. Green, tak¬ 
ing him in at a glance. 

“Your eyes,” he said to Algernon, 
“your hazel eyes bring back memories, 





18 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


my boy. You must tell me all about Lou¬ 
isiana, the deer, the camp hunts. I am 
sure that we are going to be friends.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Alger¬ 
non. 

A year of hunting, of life in the coun¬ 
try, passed swiftly away, and young Al¬ 
gernon was sent to a boarding school. 
The carriage drove up to the door, and 
he left, saying good-by to his cousins 
with a real feeling of regret. Just as he 
stepped into the carriage, his little negro 
valet appeared around the corner of the 
house, dragging a huge bag behind him. 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Mr. Wade 
Hampton Harrison. 

The little servant dropped the bag 
suddenly and said, “It’s our clothin’, 
Marse Wade.” 

“Our clothing?” said Marse Wade. 
“Well, what are you doing with it?” 

“Taking it along, Marse Wade. Yas- 
suh, ain’t I gwine with Buddie—I mean 
Marse Algy?” 

“Of course not,” answered Mr. Harri¬ 
son. “You little rascal, you are not go- 





Morning 


19 


ing anywhere. Your young master is 
going to boarding school.” 

“Yessir, but ain’t I gwine too?” 

With a swift glance, Mr. Harri¬ 
son looked at young Algernon and saw 
that he too expected to take the little 
negro with him. “I am sorry,” he said, 
“how did you make such a mistake? 
Well, anyhow it is impossible, and Al¬ 
gernon, my boy, you must hurry. It is 
eighteen miles to Natchez. You must 
drive well to get there before dark.” 

The little man got into the carriage 
and was driven suddenly away, while the 
negro child stood as though petrified, 
his feet glued to the earth, his eyes star¬ 
ing. Not a word he said. Young Al¬ 
gernon waved to him saying “Good-by” 
but the little negro stood motionless. 

“I’ll write you,” called Algernon, but 
the little servant stood there as though 
paralyzed by grief and shock. 

The young traveler disappeared into 
the distance. Only a cloud of dust was 
left behind, and the faint sound of the 
carriage wheels to be heard as they dis¬ 
appeared down the long road. 





20 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Dick stood there for minutes. Finally 
he threw himself down into the dust and 
dirt and cried, “Buddie! Buddie! 
Honey! My little Lamb! Marse 
Algy!” and cried as if his heart would 
break. Perhaps it did break. The next 
morning he was nowhere to be found. 





CHAPTER III. 


ROSA GORDON. 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicean barks of yore, 

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, 

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy hand, 

Ah! Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land! 

—Edgar Allan Poe. 

T dusk the next evening Alger¬ 
non was called from his room 
in the school to see the head 
master. He was lonely and 
tired and wondered what the teacher 
could want with him at that hour. He 
walked down the aisle slowly and 



21 




22 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


knocked on the teacher’s door, and said 
timidly, “You sent for me, sir.” 

“Come in,” answered the teacher. 
“Yes, I sent for you. There is an ex¬ 
traordinary looking person here to see 
you.” 

Touching a bell, he summoned a serv¬ 
ant and said “Send him in.” 

Algernon was startled—he could not 
imagine who would come to see him 
there. In a moment the door opened 
and in walked the little valet, literally 
tattered and torn, for his clothes were 
torn and his feet were bleeding. 

“Buddie, Buddie!” he exclaimed, 
throwing his arms around his young 
master. “I had to come, Buddie. I 
walked most of the way and got lost. 
Caught on to a wagon and fell off in 
the briar bushes. Stumped my toe and 
slept all night under the trees. I run 
away ’bout two hours after you left and 
here I is.” 

After Algernon had greeted the little 
negro affectionately, the two children 
stood there hand in hand, gazing into 
the eyes of the teacher pleadingly. The 





Rosa Gordon 23 

teacher suppressed a smile and said, 
“You intend to stay here, I presume.” 

“Yessir, Yessir—I don’t know sir. I’se 
scared to death, sir, but I jus’ had to see 
Buddie.” 

“Buddie,” said the teacher, “is your 
young master, I imagine. Well, you de¬ 
serve to be with him after so long a trip. 
I will see.” 

“Henry,” he said to the butler, “Take 
this boy to your house and see that your 
wife treats him well. He can help you 
bring in the wood. He’s a nice little 
nigger.” 

Smilingly, the little valet followed the 
butler out of the room into the yard, 
fairly beaming with joy because he could 
be near his master. 

Several years passed—the usual years 
for a school boy, with the vacation spent 
at Everton, where Algernon was happy 
and beloved. Each year he grew hand¬ 
somer as he developed into young man¬ 
hood, and his manners were so perfect, 
his mind so keen, his heart so kind, that 
he commanded respect wherever he 





24 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

went. The Wade Hampton Harrisons 
gave him the name of Prince, and he 
was known throughout the neighborhood 
as ‘Prince Nichol.’ He fenced bril¬ 
liantly, was a splendid sportsman and 
was a picturesque figure indeed. But, 
beneath all of these manly qualities, 
Prince Nichol was a dreamer, a poet at 
heart. The poet expressed himself in 
music. He was a natural musician— 
a violinist—and, though his musical 
education was neglected, his playing 
was exquisitely beautiful, because of 
the soul quality in it. His natural 
technique made his playing a simple 
and beautiful thing. His spare hours 
were spent in practicing on his violin, 
and reading Alexandre Dumas. He 
still loved Napoleon with a sublime 
fervor. What a marvelous personal¬ 
ity he was, of love, chivalry and cour¬ 
age! 

Many women adored him, but he was 
indifferent to them. He confided to his 
Cousin Mary that he had seen a beauti¬ 
ful woman, with brilliant dark eyes and 





Rosa Gordon 2$ 


black hair ride swiftly past the school 
near Natchez. 

“I tried to find out who she is, and I 
go to many places with the hope of meet¬ 
ing her, but I have never seen her, Cousin 
Mary. Only once, she dashed past the 
grounds, looked up imperiously, spurred 
her horse and dashed down the road.” 

“Down,” said his cousin. “And she 
is dark, young, beautiful, a good horse¬ 
woman? I wonder if it is Rosa Gordon. 
She visits near Natchez.” 

“Rosa Gordon!” exclaimed Algernon. 
“What a pretty name. “Who is Rosa 
Gordon?” 

“Oh, THE Gordon family. You know 
who they are. Perhaps you would not 
like her, however, if you knew her. She 
is brilliant, sarcastic and imperious, and 
often at the expense of others. She is 
arrogant and a little domineering, I fear. 
I know her.” 

“You know her, Cousin Mary?” he 
asked eagerly. “If she, my dream, my 
woman, the woman I love is Rosa Gor¬ 
don, I . . . ” 

“You love? I thought you had only 





26 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


seen her once,” answered his cousin. 

“Yes, only once, but that was enough, 
and she looked at me and smiled, and 
what a smile. Half daring, imperious, 
swift, just for a second, she looked at me, 
and then a little smile crept over her 
face. Such a sweet expression. Oh, yes, 
Cousin Mary, she is sweet. Back of the 
arrogance is love, and that makes her 
sweet. I love her, Cousin Mary. Ask 
her to dine here at once, won’t you?” 

“Of course, I shall. I will write her 
tomorrow.” 

“Oh, no, write her today, and I’ll send 
the letter by a messenger. Ask her to 
dine tomorrow.” 

The letter was written. The negro 
valet Dick saddled the fastest horse in 
the stable, and was off in a minute, off 
to Homewood, the home of the Balfours, 
where Rosa Gordon visited. Eighteen 
miles was a long ride of a gallop, but 
Dick rode on as though it were a matter 
of life and death, for he knew by the 
commanding look in his master’s eyes 
when he said, “Hurry, Dick—deliver 
this letter at once, Miss Rosa Gordon, 





Rosa Gordon 27 

Homewood, the Balfour residence, 
hurry,”—he knew that there was no time 
to be lost. 

When night came on, it grew dark 
quickly and Dick, who still believed in 
ghosts, spurred his horse to a run as he 
was enveloped in shadows made by the 
great oak trees. On and on he rode, and 
finally he reached the Balfour residence. 
He jumped off the horse and knocked on 
the door. A negro butler, whom he 
knew, opened the door. He looked at 
the horse and at Dick, who both seemed 
to be in a state of exhaustion, and he 
said, “What’s the matter? Is someone 
ill—someone dead? I hate to give it to 
Miss Rosa if it’s bad news.” 

“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” said Dick, “jes* 
love.” 

“Jes’ love,” said the old butler. “My 
Gawd—at this hour of the night. Well, 
I’ll take it in anyhow. Miss Rosa will be 
bored to death with jes’ love. She got 
brains; she got no time for foolishness.” 

Rosa Gordon was sitting in the draw¬ 
ing room reading a Life of Pythagoras. 





28 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


The letter was handed to her—she took 
it in a casual way and opened it. It 
said: 

“My dear Rosa: 

Will you dine with us tomorrow at 
8 :oo? I want you to meet my cousin, 
Algernon Emmett Nichol, a handsome, 
gallant boy, of whom you have heard 
me speak. Come prepared to visit. It 
is a long drive and quite fatiguing. 
Come and stay as long as you will. 

With best wishes, and hoping to see 
you, I am 

Sincerely, 

Mary Nichol Harrison.” 

“Bring my portfolio,” Rosa Gordon 
said, and she wrote this: 

“My dear Mrs. Harrison: 

I am so sorry not to dine with you 
tomorrow, but I am leaving for 
Louisiana. As to your handsome cousin, 

I am sure I would not like him. I do 
not care for young men, as you know. 
They bore me unmercifully. I prefer 
the companionship of more sophisti¬ 
cated individuals, and for this, am 





Rosa Gordon 29 


doubly sorry not to visit you, as I 
remember your brilliant husband with 
much delight and you, always with love 
and appreciation. 

Rosa Gordon.” 

The letter was given to Dick, who 
sensed the indifference and reluctantly 
accepted the letter which was to bring 
pain to his master. 

“I’se gwine to leave my horse here,” 
Dick said to the old butler, “and take 
one ub yourn.” 

“All right,” he said, pointing to the 
stable. “Take a good one; it’s all right 
with Marse Balfour, but don’t take Miss 
Rosa’s horse—her’s is de black one.” 

“All right,” said Dick, “Anyone w*ill 
do goin’ home.” 

Slowly, wearily, he rode back over the 
road to Everton. At daylight he was 
home. 

“I wonder if Marse Algy is up.” But 
as he said this, he caught sight of a light 
burning in the window of his master’s 
bedroom. 





30 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Dick rode up under the window 
slowly. 

“Buddie—Honey—Marse Algernon, 
I mean,—yo’ there ?” 

“Yes, of course, come up. The door 
is open.” 

Slowly Dick entered the room. “It— 
the letter—is to Miss Mary,” he said, 
“Not to you, suh.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Algernon eagerly. 
“My cousin told me to read it. It is all 
right.” 

He tore the letter open, glanced over 
the page quickly. The letter fell to the 
floor. After a moment, he said, “Thank 
you, Dick. You may go now, and here’s 
the key to the cellar. Go and get your¬ 
self a good drink—you need it. And 
here, Dick, take a cigar. And—never 
mind, that’s all, Dick.” 

“Good night, suh. Sleep well, suh. 
It’s nearly mornin’, suh.” 

“Thank you. You may go now, 
Dick.” 

The servant walked reluctantly away, 
knowing that his master was unhappy. 
Algernon Nichol walked toward the 





Rosa Gordon 31 


window. After a moment, he crossed the 
room again and picked up his violin. “It 
will not awaken them,” he said to him¬ 
self. With this he began playing a long, 
plaintive strain, something that he had 
composed himself. As he did, he saw 
the day break but he noticed that the sun 
was slow in coming up. The sun did not 
come up that morning. 





CHAPTER IV. 


NEWS. 

“War is a breaking of the law, for the first 
law is to love one another.” 

LGERNON NICHOL 
walked into the breakfast 
room in a depressed mood. 
“You must not take it so 
seriously. You do not know her yet, and 
it may not be Rosa Gordon, after all, who 
rode past the grounds,” said his Cousin 
Mary tenderly. 

“I know,” answered Algernon, “I 
know it is Rosa Gordon.” 

Just then Mr. Payne Green was an¬ 
nounced. He stepped in for a mint ju¬ 
lep. Drinking a toast of some original 
kind to Algernon, he said, “Very soon I 
believe you will have a chance to use 
that sword of yours in real earnest. It 
is just a question of days now when you 
will be called to fight for your country. 
Your gallant sword will make havoc 
with the Yankees.” 



32 




News 


33 


“Yes,” answered Algernon absent- 
mindedly, “I shall be glad to go.” 

“Yes, of course, all young men are 
happy in going to War.” 

“Not only that, but he is in love,” said 
his cousin, teasingly, “and with a girl he 
has only seen but once, and that at a dis¬ 
tance.” 

“Splendid,” said Mr. Green, “real ro¬ 
mance, I love it. I knew you were a 
poet from the moment I saw you, and 
cavalier too. It is magnificent. I am 
proud of you.” 

“He reads Alexandre Dumas’ ‘The 
Three Musketeers,’ and he rides like 
hell,” said Wade Hampton Harrison, 
then, glancing at his wife, he said, “I beg 
your pardon. I am speaking of our 
Prince here.” 

“Yes,” answered Mary solemnly, “It 
is really quite beautiful. He only saw 
her once.” 

“He scarcely saw her at all,” laughed 
her husband. 

“Do not laugh, Wade, you know it was 
love at first sight with us.” 

“Yes, but I had a good look at you, 




34 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

and I did not commit a crime in trying 
to see you.” 

“Perhaps you would, if it had been 
necessary.” 

“Perhaps,” said her husband, “but I 
did not hurt my two best friends.” 

“Best friends?” said Algernon ques- 
tioningly. 

“Yes, your horse and Dick. Dick rode 
so fast that he nearly ended the life of 
that horse I gave you, and his own, in¬ 
cidentally.” 

“I am sorry about the horse, Cousin 
Wade. I am sure he is badly done up 
after the ride.” 

“D’Artagnan,” said Mr. Green, “of 
course, how would you expect him to en¬ 
joy life without romance and a fast 
ride?” 

“A wonderful night, a beautiful wom¬ 
an,” said Mr. Harrison, as he handed 
Algernon a mint julep. “Drink it my 
boy, you need it. Brace up,—you’re 
young, you know.” 

Just then a rider dashed up to the 
door. He dismounted and walked out 





News 35 

to the dining room as though perfectly 
at home. 

“Oh, it is my brother Bob, I guess,” 
said Mr. Green. “What brings you 
here, and in such a hurry? Another 
cavalier, I suppose.” 

He was beginning to joke with his 
brother, but noted the serious expres¬ 
sion on his face, and saw that he was 
very white. 

“It’s war, Payne, war. I am off at 
once; thought I would say good-by to 
Mrs. Harrison.” 

“War,” said Algernon, and then 
sprang forward and called a servant. 

“War,” he said again to himself. 
“Thank God—get my horse, Dick, hur¬ 
ry. I’m off with Mr. Green.” 

Turning to his cousin, he said, “I am 
going to Natchez to enlist at once.” 

It all happened in a minute it seemed, 
for the two young riders dashed down 
the long drive, and were off before Mary 
Harrison could speak. She stood and 
watched them disappear. Wearily, she 
turned. She seemed to have grown 





36 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

old in that one moment—a moment of 
swift, keen realization. 

“War,” she said, “how horrible. 
Brother against Brother.” 

“It is life,” said her husband, catch¬ 
ing her expression, “and it is right. 
All of this hypocritical talk about ethi¬ 
cal appeal, justice, freedom. There is 
no freedom, except for the man who has 
the calibre, the ability to earn it, and 
to preserve it. A negro is by nature 
inferior, and one cannot beat nature. 
The basis of this whole trouble is 
jealousy. The Yankees are jealous of 
our success, our independence, our aris¬ 
tocracy, our peace. A Yankee is a 
tradesman. He instinctively dislikes the 
aristocrat. Our imperialism is mistaken 
for cruelty, our dignity for coldness, our 
peace for inertia. 

“We are not understood,” he contin¬ 
ued. “We are not by nature cruel. 
Why should we be accused of being 
cruel to our servants, our slaves? And 
what did the Yankees do to the Indians? 
Did they show them any mercy? Here 
we live in peace, in joy. We are too 





News 37 

happy. Our existence annoys them— 
these Yankees. And a Yankee has no 
real chivalry. He is too busy with busi¬ 
ness. He is selfish and domineering.” 

‘‘Don’t say that, Wade,” said his wife* 
“You know that we have many friends 
in the North, and that they are very 
charming people. There are nice peo¬ 
ple everywhere.” 

“Yes, Mary, you find beauty every¬ 
where, because you are beautiful your¬ 
self.” Kissing her, he said, “Go in, 
dear, I want to discuss these Yankees 
with Payne. Please go in dear, or I 
shall say what I said a few minutes 
ago in your presence, and I do not 
wish to.” 

Hours passed. Mary Harrison sat 
in her room gazing at the sky. Once in 
a while she would say aloud—“War”— 
“and we are taught to love one another. 
Why do we not follow blindly, respect¬ 
fully, that teaching, that law? It is 
so simple and practical. If we did fol¬ 
low it, there could be no war.” 

Then she said to the old servant as 
she entered the room, “My dear boy 





38 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


has gone away. My gallant, beautiful 
boy. He is so brave. I wonder if he 
can be patient. There is great virtue 
in patience. When the war is over 
perhaps Rosa will have changed, and 
will have learned to like young men, and 
we shall all be happy. When it is over, 
we shall all be happy.” 

“Yes, Miss Mary, we’re goin’ to be 
happy. We’re not goin’ to let dem 
Yankees interfe’e with our happiness. 
I’se wonder why dey’se tryin’ to inter¬ 
fe’e with it now. Dey got no manners, 
—dat’s what I got against dem,” said 
the servant in loyal tone, as she waited 
upon her mistress. 

“War is a breaking of the law, for 
the first law is to love one another,” 
said Mary Harrison. “How horrible 
it is—this breaking of the spiritual 
law!” 





CHAPTER V. 


WAR. 

“I love the South! It is a part of this Union. 
I love every foot of its soil, every hill and valley, 
mountain, lake and sea and every man, woman and 
child, that breathes beneath its skies. I am an 
American.” 

—Abraham Lincoln. 



NDER General Beauregard, 
Algernon Emmett Nichol 
fought bravely. As young as 
he was, he was almost immedi¬ 
ately made a lieutenant, often acting as 
captain. Though a mere boy he was the 
leader of one of the Forlorn Hopes, 
after which he was captured and sent 
to Johnston’s Island, where he was to 
remain until the end of the war. 

Hope shattered, his one great ambi¬ 
tion, which was to become a leader, a 
military man of real power, was lost 
forever. 

The capture happened in this way: 
He heard that Rosa Gordon was to be 
at a dinner given near Natchez. He 

39 





40 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


and his friend, Jimmy Johnston, de¬ 
termined to go to the dinner at any 
cost. They were warned that there was 
danger of capture, but love knows no 
fear, and true friendship follows on to 
the end, so Jimmy Johnston happily 
went with his friend, with full realiza¬ 
tion of their danger. 

The young soldiers dashed through 
the gate of Homewood and were soon 
ushered into the dining room, where 
Rosa Gordon was a guest. 

She appeared in her usual regal 
splendor and radiance, wearing a sun 
colored gown of marvelous beauty. In 
her arms were some yellow roses. Her 
dark hair was elaborately dressed in 
Egyptian style, and as she sat there in 
her regal beauty, Algernon Nichol fair¬ 
ly reeled for a moment, for it was the 
woman he loved, the one who rode past 
the grounds, leaving him with but one 
thought, his love and admiration for 
her. 

He was presented to Rosa Gordon. 
She scarcely noticed him. She seemed 
entirely indifferent to her surroundings; 





War 


41 


like some queen, weary with her subjects, 
her admirers, her throne. His atten¬ 
tions were in vain; she scarcely seemed 
to be conscious of his presence. She 
talked most of the time to Mr. Balfour, 
her host, who was one of the older men 
whom she admired. 

In the midst of some brilliant story, 
there was a sudden rush, a noise, a 
sound of riders. In a moment, the door 
flew open and the dining room was 
filled with men in blue. 

A young officer walked up to Cap¬ 
tain Johnston and then to Algernon 
Nichol, and took their swords. It was 
too late for escape. They were cap¬ 
tured. 

As Algernon walked bravely away, 
he stopped and said, “May I have one 
moment, Officer? One moment only, 
you can trust me.” 

“Oh, very well,” said the officer. 

Walking back to the table, he said 
calmly and quietly, “Miss Gordon, I 
shall think of you often. To have seen 
you, even for this brief hour, was worth 





42 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

it. I go happily, willingly. I have 
no regret.” 

She looked at him in a puzzled way. 
“I do not understand. A dinner is 
scarcely worth so severe a trial, and I 
am sure the guests all regret your mis¬ 
fortune.” 

“They ought to revel in my fortune,” 
he said gallantly. “I am the most for¬ 
tunate man in the world to have seen 
you, even for an hour.” 

“You’re very kind,” she answered, as 
the officer stepped forward and said, 
“One moment you asked for; we are off 
now.” 

Algernon kissed Rosa Gordon’s hand 
and said, “May I have one of your 
roses?’ ‘These roses from the sun,’” he 
added tenderly. 

“Certainly, with pleasure.” Taking 
a yellow rose, she gave it to him. 

He kissed her hand again, and thrust 
the rose in his vest pocket. Placing his 
hand upon his heart, he bowed grace¬ 
fully and left the room. 





War 43 

Three years of loneliness, suffering 
and privation passed, for Algernon 
Nichol and his gallant friend were im¬ 
prisoned on Johnston’s Island. For 
hours Algernon played upon his violin. 
Sometimes he composed pretty pieces, 
mostly romantic, but once he wrote a 
little waltz—the Johnston Island Waltz, 
it was called—which afterwards was 
known throughout the South, after the 
terrible days were over. 

Often he said to his friend, “No war, 
no political system can change us or 
eradicate the habit of fighting. No 
statesmen, no country. The change will 
have to come through evolution, and 
this evolution must spring from an ethi¬ 
cal system. It is for the Mothers of the 
coming race to create this system, to in¬ 
culcate and develop love among chil¬ 
dren, so that any form of unkindness or 
strife will be regarded as a breaking 
of the law, the law of love—violence 
to be regarded as criminal. Only when 
there is a full realization of the power 
and efficacy of the teachings of the 
great masters will there be peace and a 





44 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

true brotherhood of man. The Church, 
the fraternity, the cult, is of no avail, 
if it does not insist upon the fundamen¬ 
tal principle, which is love. This will 
change the world, and nothing else. 

The surrender of that glorious gen¬ 
tleman and general, Robert E. Lee, 
with its pathetic, yet divine dignity, 
will remain in the minds of all fair 
thinkers as a symbol of true courage 
and pride. 

When the young soldiers imprisoned 
were released, they beheld their beloved 
country in ashes. They, too, displayed 
the fine courage to which they were 
born. Utterly untrained for business 
methods, they adapted themselves to 
the new conditions quickly and con¬ 
sistently. 


When Algernon Emmett Nichol rode 
up the long drive to Everton four years 
later, older in years, a serious man, a 
soul mature in wisdom, it was in the 
deep of night that he saw a light from 





War 45 

the old home. It was very late, and he 
thought that someone must be ill, for 
there was only one light. 

He rode up to the house, sad and 
fatigued, and a little startled by the 
light. He did not know that his faith¬ 
ful servant Dick slept on a rug at his 
door, refusing to go home to his cabin. 

“I’m sho he am acomin’ tonight, Miss 
Mary,” he would say night after night. 
“Mos’ all the young gentlemen are back 
now, and anyway I’d rather sleep and 
wait for him if you don’t mind, Miss 
Mary, and it’s safer for you too, Honey, 
with all dese upstart niggers carrying 
on ’round de country, and poor Buddie 
been eatin’ hard tack and nuthin’ to 
cheer him but his music. It’s a good 
thing Buddie liked music Miss Mary, 
and I guess he’s been composin’ things 
for Miss Rosa. I wish Miss Rosa would 
jest buss out and fall in love wid Bud¬ 
die. He sho loves that lady and Lawd, 
Miss Mary, how can you blame him? 
She sho looks like a queen. Buddie, 
Marse Algy, I mean, don’t mind her 
grand ways—sort of meanlike though— 





46 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


’cause he done told me all about Cleo¬ 
patra. He says she is jest like dat queen 
on de Ribber Nile. And he don’t like 
anythin’ common. You know how he 
is about horses and dogs and clothes and 
everythin’. It’s jes natural. Dat am 
de Eastern Sho’ of Maryland in him. 
Ole miss, his ma, was jes de same, and 
I sho was scared of her. But I liked 
her jes the same.” 

“Yes,” said Mary Harrison. “Yes, 
Dick, but Miss Rosa does not like young 
men and it’s hopeless.” 

“You ax her out here, Miss Mary, an’ 
if Buddie can get her to sit under dat 
big magnolia tree, and one of dose 
white blossoms falls down on her heart, 
I’se sho she’s goin’ to love Buddie. I 
done seen it in a dream.” 

“Yes, Dick, and I know you believe 
in dreams. But put out the lights, Dick, 
and lock the doors. Your master will 
not be here at this hour. He would 
spend the night in Natchez with friends 
and come out in the morning.” 

“Yes’m,” said Dick. “You’se right. 
I’ll lock up, but I’ll jes go up and wait 





War 47 

in his room, jes the same, if you don’t 
mind.” 

Bowing respectfully, he said, “Good 
night,” and he went up to the room 
which his master had occupied. He 
sat by the window. He could hear 
wheels passing by occasionally, then a 
dog barking at the moon, and screech 
owls in the distance. 

Finally he fell asleep in a chair, but 
in a few moments he awakened sud¬ 
denly. He heard a horse outside. Going 
to the front window he saw a shadowy 
figure riding slowly up the drive. 

“It can’t be Buddie,” he said to him¬ 
self. “He nebber rides so slow as dat. 
It mus’ be bad news.” 

“Oh, Lawd,” he said, “I hope it ain’t 
nothin’ about him.” 

The rider drew nearer and Dick heard 
a voice say “Go along.” 

“It is Buddie! ’Cause Buddie never 
say ‘Giddup,’ He always sez ‘Go along.’ 
Jes like he never sez ‘Shut up.’ He jes 
say ‘Be quiet!’” 

Running out of the room, down the 





48 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


long stairway, he fairly flew out of 
the door. 

“Buddy, Honey, Marse Algy, the 
Lawd be praised!” 

“How do you do, Dick,” said his 
master solemnly, “I am glad to see 
you.” 

“And I’se sho glad to see you, sir. Is 
you tired? Jes come on in. I done got 
somethin’ to cheer you up. The Yan¬ 
kees bust all de bottles in de cellar dey 
thought, but I grabbed one bottle and 
buried it under de magnolia tree.” 

Taking the horse by the bridle, he 
led him to the stable. 

“Go on in, Marse Algy. I’ll feed the 
horse, and be back in a minute wid de 
bottle.” 

“All right, Dick,” said the master 
wearily. “I see that you are here. 
Where are the other servants?” 

“Oh, dey’re all heah, down in de 
cabin. Only dem good fur nuthin’ nig¬ 
gers, ran away. Some of dem back, 
already. And de Marse and Missus, 
dey’re well too.” 

“Yes, I know. I asked about them in 





War 


49 


Natchez, but very unhappy, I hear. I 
dread seeing them unhappy.” 

‘Til go up and wake dem, Marse 
Algy.” 

“No, don’t, Dick. I do not want to 
disturb them, and am dead tired any¬ 
way. It’s just as though my soul has 
gone out of my body.” 

“Well, if it’s gone, Buddie, I’se know 
where it’s gone. Not meaning any dis¬ 
respect in mentioning de lady, but I 
knows you wants to hear about Miss 
Rosa. She’s well and still beautiful, but 
doesn’t ride any more. Dem Yankees 
stole her horse. She drives now and 
looks very unhappy. I s’pose ’cause 
she’s not used to goin’ slow—drivin’ 
slow horses.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the soldier, “but 
bring in the bottle, Dick. I hope it’s 
whiskey.” 

“Oh, it’s whiskey all right, sir, and 
straight from Kentucky. You jes’ wait 
—I’ll be back here in a minute.” 

Running out into the yard, he grabbed 
a spade and dug eagerly in the ground 
and came back with the bottle and a glass. 





50 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

Taking the bottle, the soldier poured 
out a glassful and drank it down. 

“Get another glass, Dick.” 

“Yessir.” 

Pouring another glassful, the soldier 
said, “Drink it, Dick. You need it, 
too.” 

“Oh, no, Buddie, honey, Marse Algy, 
I done saved it all fo’ you.” 

“Yes, I know, but drink to me—to my 
health.” 

Taking the glass, Dick bowed and 
held the glass high. “Fse jes’ a nigger, 
but I’se wise and I drinks a toast and 
here ’tis: ‘Here am to de queen ob de 
Ribber Nile, and to de handsomest gen¬ 
tleman in de country side.” 

“Thank you, Dick. That’s enough.” 

“You don’t mind my talkin’ about 
her. We knowed each oder so long and 
fore you shuts me up, I wants to give 
you some advice. When she comes out 
here, ax her to sit on de bench under de 
magnolia tree. You ax her there to be 
your wife, and jes’ as you do, one ob de 
white blossoms am goin’ to fall down 
on her heart, and turn it into love. I 





War 51 

done seed it, Buddie, in a dream, and 
I’se talked to de moon about it, too.” 
“The moon?” 

“Yessir. And Liza she made a wish 
to de new moon jes last month.” 

“Thank you, Dick, but I’m so tired. 
I’ll be off to bed. See you tomorrow.” 

“Yessir, but I’se gwine to fetch you a 
sandwich, and then goin’ to bed myself. 
I ain’t been in bed for a month.” 
“What’s the matter, Dick?” 

“Been sleepin’ on de floor, Buddie. 
Jes waitin’ for you to come home.” 

“That’s kind of you, Dick. I appre¬ 
ciate it. Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, Buddie. You 
knows I’se never gwine to leave you, 
war or no war, and I never did like 
Yankees. Always meddlin’ in other peo¬ 
ple’s business!” 

“Yes, Dick, but it is over now.” 

“No, Buddie, it’s jes’ beginning! 
That’s de trouble. I seen strange, white 
figures riden’ in de night. I seen dem in 
a dream and dat’s a bad sign. We gwine 
to have terrible times, and they jes’ be¬ 
ginning now! . . .” 





CHAPTER VI. 


THE MAGNOLIA TREE. 

“Even today more than six hundred millions of 
human beings believe in the pre-existence of the 
soul, in successive lives and reincarnations.” 

—Maeterlinck. 



|OSA GORDON drove slowly 
and imperiously up the long 
drive to Everton. The host and 
hostess stood at the head of the 
steps, having come out to greet her. She 
walked up, and spoke to them solemnly. 

“So glad to see you again,” she said, 
trying to smile. 

“So glad to see you, Rosa. It is a 
great pleasure,” said Mary Harrison. 

Then Rosa, holding out her long, 
beautiful hand to her host, whom she 
admired, smiled graciously. He kissed 
her hand and said, “It will be nice to 
talk to you again.” 

“And how is Mr. Payne Green?” she 
asked eagerly. “You know this habit 
of mine of liking older men—but quite 
52 






The Magnolia Tree 53 

properly, of course,” she added. “I like 
their mature minds. Young men are 
so uninteresting.” 

“We have a young man here, Rosa. 
Be kind to him. He is really so nice.” 
This Mary Harrison said quite eagerly. 

“I will take you to your room,” she 
added. “Not so many servants as usual, 
Rosa. Only the cook and Dick left; 
the others are scattered about the coun¬ 
try, you know. This terrible war! 
What awful things have happened to 
us.” 

“Yes,” said Rosa, “but we must not 
think of it, if possible.” 

“Shall I dress for dinner?” she added. 
“I never feel like dressing these days. 
It does not seem a fitting thing, some¬ 
how. But I brought along an old dress. 
I will wear it if you wish me to do 
so.” 

“I will wear it. I suppose it won’t 
show much in the candle-light, but it 
is cheerful.” 

“Yes, dear, wear it. Rest now and 
come down a little later.” 





54 dri Old-Fashioned Romance 


In an hour dinner was announced. 
It was a delicious dinner, but different 
from the former dinners given at Ever- 
ton. No silver, no wine, very little cut 
glass, but numbers of flowers, roses of 
every color. 

A tall distinguished figure appeared 
in the doorway, “I am sorry to be late, 
Cousin Mary, forgive me.” 

“Certainly, Algernon,” answered his 
cousin. “You have met Miss Gordon, I 
think, in Natchez?” 

“Yes,” answered Algernon, “I have 
had that pleasure.” 

Going up to Rosa Gordon, he kissed 
her hand solemnly. He noticed that 
she wore no rings, and that she was 
much less haughty than formerly. 

“She, too, has lost, has suffered,” he 
thought. “She is changed, but still beau¬ 
tiful.” 

Just then her host said, “I think, Rosa, 
that this is the young man who carried 
a yellow rose into battle.” This he said 
jokingly. 

Rosa Gordon said, “Really, how in¬ 
teresting,” in an indifferent tone, while 





The Magnolia Tree 55 

Algernon looked at her searchingly to 
find some response to his great love 
and keen interest. He was confronted 
with a face which conveyed nothing, 
neither love nor pity. 

The dinner was over, there was a 
sombre, shadowy atmosphere about 
everything, and there was a deep silence. 
The only bright thing in the tall room 
was Rosa Gordon’s gown. It looked 
like a huge flower from the sun, some 
great rose with its petals closed beau¬ 
tifully and firmly. 

After coffee was served, Algernon 
was persuaded to play upon his vio¬ 
lin. 

“But I have no accompanist,” he said, 
looking at Rosa Gordon. 

“True art needs no accompaniment,” 
Rosa Gordon responded abruptly and 
looked at him daringly, as though wish¬ 
ing to test his skill. 

“You are right. I shall play alone.” 

Now, Rosa Gordon played the piano 
well, and he knew it, but he also knew 
that she wished to place him in an awk- 





56 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

ward position, and that she wished to 
listen and criticize his playing. 

Taking his violin, he walked across 
the room and stood by the window. “I 
will play something from DeBeriot, an 
Air Varie.” 

Placing his violin under his chin, and 
standing with unconscious dignity, he 
began to play the Air Varie. This 
particular composition displayed his 
natural technique. 

“Play the Carnival de Venice,” Rosa 
Gordon said as he finished. 

“Or Fisher’s Hornpipe,” said Wade 
Harrison jokingly. 

He played the Carnival de Venice in 
finished style. 

“That is splendid,” said Rosa Gor¬ 
don. “I like your technique.” 

“You would like his soul if he played 
one of his own compositions,” said his 
cousin tenderly. 

“Oh, play Annie Laurie,” interrupted 
her husband. 

“Play the things I like, Algernon. 
They are best.” 

“Yes, Cousin Wade, in a moment. I 





The Magnolia Tree 57 

know you want something jolly, but first 
I must play a little piece for Miss Gor¬ 
don.” 

He began a beautiful thing of his 
own, expressing the depths and pathos, 
the passion, yet exquisite refinement of 
his soul. Slowly he let his bow drop 
to his side, almost unconsciously. He 
was so lost in his reverie. There was 
a full minute of silence. There was a 
tear in Mrs. Harrison’s soft, blue eyes. 
Wade Harrison coughed and made some 
futile remarks to break the silence, while 
Rosa Gordon sat motionless, proudly, 
firmly determined not to show the least 
emotion. But when she tried to speak, 
her voice faltered. It seemed to go 
away from her entirely, while Algernon 
stood looking into her eyes with a look 
that expressed his beautiful story, one 
of true love, deep suffering and courage. 

In a few moments the host and hostess 
left the room. Wade Harrison said to 
his wife in a whisper, “He has won, I 
tell you. He has got her, Mary, this 
time. See if I am not right. That 
piece—those eyes—the silence—the can- 





58 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


dle-light—the perfume from the garden. 
See if I am not right.” 

“I hope so,” said his wife quietly. “I 
feel so sorry for him, poor boy. I hope 
she won’t be too haughty with my dear 
boy. He has suffered so terribly. But 
Rosa is so proud and she has never 
loved anyone. She only knows admira¬ 
tion.” 

The next evening after dinner Al¬ 
gernon took the advice of his servant, 
for he knew that servants have a par¬ 
ticular wisdom and psychic power of 
their own. It was just at dusk. He took 
Rosa Gordon for a walk in the garden. 
On the way back to the house, he asked 
her to sit down a minute and talk to 
him. 

“Certainly,” she said indifferently. 
“I will sit here. It is very pretty.” 

“Not so pretty as over there,” said 
Algernon timidly. 

“Really,” said Rosa, “I see no dif¬ 
ference. The whole garden is beauti¬ 
ful.” But she walked on with him as 
it did not matter where they sat. 





The Magnolia Tree 59 

Sitting calmly on the bench which he 
had drawn her to, under the magnolia 
tree, he told her briefly of his great love. 
He was afraid to look at her, afraid of 
her answer, which he might see in her 
face. 

She said nothing for minutes. Fin¬ 
ally she said in a strange voice, “You are 
the first young man I ever liked.” 

“Did you say ‘liked,’ Rosa?” 

“Yes, ‘liked.’ Why not?” 

“I do not like the word very much. 
Why do you not tell the truth? Why 
do you not say that I am the first young 
man you ever loved?” This he said 
impulsively, for somehow, although a 
minute before he had been uncertain, 
a keen, telepathic communication had 
been established between them—all in 
a second. 

“It is of no use,” she said, “and I am 
too tired to keep up this pretense. The 
day I rode past the grounds, although I 
only saw you for a second, I felt that I 
must ride back and speak to you. I 
never forgot you. I was so happy to 





6 o An Old-Fashioned Romance 


see you in Natchez, but I did not want 
you to know.” 

“Why not, Rosa, why not? Why did 
you not give me some sign. It would 
have made the terrible days on John¬ 
ston’s Island more bearable.” 

“It is my way,” she said. “I cannot 
give in about anything. I never did 
before.” 

Looking at her he said, “Rosa, may 
I kiss you? Your hand, I mean.” Tak¬ 
ing her hand, he kissed it. 

“When you are my wife, I may kiss 
your lips, if I may have the honour to 
call you my wife?” 

She did not answer. She seemed 
lost in some strange reverie. But, tak¬ 
ing his hand calmly, she said, “Those 
words bring back a memory, a strange, 
beautiful memory—something vague, 
something of some other world. You 
have said those same words to me 
before. In a former life, perhaps. 
In some other country. In Egypt, I 
think.” 

“And what was your answer, in 
Egypt?” 





The Magnolia Tree 61 


“It was—it was this: ‘It is an hon¬ 
our to love you.’ ” 

“And what do you say now, Rosa?” 

“It is an honour to love you again” 

Just then a large, white magnolia 
blossom fell at her feet. Looking ten¬ 
derly at the blossom, she said, “Life is 
like that. We live but to die and to 
live again.” . • • 





CHAPTER VII. 


A WEDDING. 


How silently serene a sea of pride! 

How daring an ambition, yet how deep! 
How fathomless a capacity for love! 

—Edgar Allan Poe. 



ON’T you stay and be mar¬ 
ried here, Rosa?” said Mary 
Harrison lovingly. “Your 
dear ones are gone, and 
you have promised to marry at once, you 
know—to marry my beautiful boy. And 
it is a war romance—you must not be con¬ 
ventional. Let us drive over to the 
little church at Church Hill. It will 
make my dear boy so happy.” 

“You are right, Mrs. Harrison, and 
he needs me, I think. Let us surprise 
him.” 

“Shall we tell him that you will go 
tomorrow to the little church? Just the 
four of us, and perhaps Mr. Payne 
Green?” 

“Yes, do, dear Mrs. Harrison.” 

“You tell him.” 


62 




A Wedding 63 

“I cannot get out of the habit of not 
giving in. I really want to be married 
tomorrow or today—I do not care when 
—but you must tell him, not I.” 

The next morning, at 11 o’clock, they 
drove over to the little church, accom¬ 
panied by Mr. Payne Green, whose 
witty remarks and brilliant repartee 
created a merry drive to the church, in 
spite of the once beautiful homes they 
passed, now in ashes. Once in a while, 
Mary Harrison would close her eyes as 
she passed the home of some old friend, 
which was no longer home, and pre¬ 
tended not to see, so that no touch of 
sadness would creep into the day. 

“And who do you suppose is going 
to marry you?” said Mary Harrison. 

“Why, the Bishop, I suppose. I had 
not really thought.” 

“Oh, no. We hadn’t time to get a 
Bishop. Jimmie Johnston is going to 
do it. Jimmy Johnston, you know, Rosa, 
was captured on your account, so feels 
that he must be in the wedding too.” 

“Oh, I see. He was the young man 





64 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


who accompanied Algernon to the din¬ 
ner at Natchez.” 

On and on they drove merrily. They 
reached the church, which was placed 
high upon a hill, surrounded by beau¬ 
tiful trees and numerous flowers. 

“And who do you suppose, Rosa, is 
going to play at your wedding?” said 
Mary Harrison happily. 

“Oh, I do not know, I am sure. Did 
you have time for music?” 

Just then Katherine Balfour, whom 
Rosa Gordon had visited at Homewood, 
came down the walk from the church 
and waved her hand. 

“I am here first, you see. Been prac¬ 
ticing.” 

“I am going to play a lovely thing for 
you, Rosa,” she said, as she kissed her 
beautiful friend. “I had a fearful time 
learning it in an hour.” 

“What is it, dear?” said Rosa. 

“It’s the little piece that Algernon 
played to you a few days ago. He sent 
it by Dick, who was glad to have a 
happy ride to Homewood.” 

“Oh, how kind you are—how kind 





A Wedding 65 

all of you are to me!” And this she said 
as she looked at Payne Green, who was 
still keeping up the bright spirit of the 
day. 

“You have not much time, Rosa,” said 
Wade Harrison. “We have got to get 
back for dinner, and I do not want our 
gallant Algernon to die here of heart fail¬ 
ure before the ceremony. Please look at 
him. He is in another world. I don’t 
think he hears a word that any of us 
are saying. Do you, Algernon?” 

The young soldier did not answer, but 
looked at Rosa Gordon happily, and 
then the music from the organ began. 

He offered his arm to Rosa in old- 
fashioned style, and they walked proud¬ 
ly up the aisle, while the others dropped 
noiselessly into a pew near the door. 

Jimmie Johnston stood in the pulpit, 
and smiled as they stopped in front of 
him. A ray of sunlight fell upon Rosa 
Gordon and to the yellow roses she car¬ 
ried in her arms, creating a brightness, 
gloriously, undeniably beautiful. 

“I never saw anything so handsome 
as those two—did you?” said Mary Har- 





66 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


rison to her husband. “So magnificent 
—quite of another world, are they not?” 

“But, why the yellow roses? I 
thought they would be white of course.” 

“Well, that is a story, and a pretty 
one, too,” said Payne Green under his 
breath. “Rosa thinks the yellow roses 
symbolic, not only because of an in¬ 
stance in this life, but in some other. 
Her mind is not a bit Occidental, you 
know. She is an Oriental at heart. She 
believes in reincarnation.” 

“Do not talk,” said Wade Harrison. 

“Well, I cannot be quiet,” said his 
wife. “I am so happy.” 

“Well, you must be, dear. You can 
talk after the ceremony.” 

There was a long silence. Only the 
love poem from the organ vibrated 
through the little church, which quite 
annihilated the words of the marriage 
ceremony, which was as they had wanted 
it—this young couple, so silent and dig¬ 
nified and exquisitely reserved. The 
music ceased. Katherine Balfour came 
down from the organ. 

Kissing Rosa, she said, “You are won- 





A Wedding 67 

derful, and these roses, are they from 
the sun? So bright and beautiful. Just 
like you, dear.” 

“Thank you,” answered Rosa. And 
then she said, quite solemnly, as though 
having said it many times before, “My 
husband loves them so.” 

“I suppose he loved them in Egypt,” 
said Mr. Green. 

“Well, it is beautiful to have you 
here, now, and I congratulate not one, 
but both.” 





CHAPTER VIII. 


THE SYMBOL. 

“The lotus, wherever it grows, is beautiful and 
pure.” 

—The Wisdom of the Hindus. 

■ NE year of perfect happiness, 
and then Rosa’s own words 
became prophetic. Those 
words of hers were “Life is 
like that—we live and die, to live again!” 

A little boy was born and died within 
one hour after its birth. It was placed 
on a white bed near the mother, and 
on its little body were placed many 
white flowers, one of which was a mag¬ 
nolia bud. 

“Give me the magnolia blossom,” said 
Rosa to her husband. “It is a symbol. 
Do you remember, dearest, what I said 
about life and death the night the white 
blossom fell at my feet?” 

“Don’t, don’t, Rosa,” answered her 
husband. “I can bear your illness, but 
the agony in your voice, your words, 
68 



The Symbol 69 


I cannot bear. Do not speak, my be¬ 
loved. It breaks my heart. . . . And 
our little boy,” he added tenderly. 

“And a Prince, too,” said Rosa, “like 
you. If he only could have lived. My 
suffering was nothing, because he was 
to live . . . and now. . . .” 

“I know, my dear one, but we have 
each other still.” 

“Yes, still,” answered Rosa, with a 
strange look of fear on her face. And 
then she said, “Just still. . . .” 

“Forever,” said her husband, but Rosa 
did not answer. 

After a long silence, she said, “Al¬ 
gernon, I must speak to you. They have 
not told you, but I must tell you, so that 
you may know in time. I am going to 
die, but I shall come back.” 

“Rosa, what do you mean? You can¬ 
not mean this. You cannot die, you are 
too bright for death. How can you 
speak this way to me? Why do you 
torture me? The doctor told me that 
you were quite safe, that everything 
was all right.” 

“I told the doctor to say that. I 





70 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

wanted to tell you myself. I am dying, 
dearest, but I shall return.” 

Taking his hand in hers, she raised 
her head from the pillow. Looking 
into his eyes deeply, she said, “Prom¬ 
ise me to marry again, promise.” 

“I cannot, Rosa. Do not ask such a 
thing. I do not understand. It would 
not comfort me, nothing, no one could. 
Do not speak of such desecration. And 
you cannot, you shall not die—do not 
speak of it again. The doctor is wrong 
—he must be wrong!” 

Looking at him again, she said, “You 
must answer me quickly. Promise to 
marry. It is the only way—my way. 
Promise, dearest.” 

“I cannot, Rosa.” 

Placing her head upon the pillow 
gently, he then rushed to the door and 
called the doctor. “Doctor,” he said, 
“come, come at once.” 

As he came into the door, a strange 
whiteness came over Rosa’s face, but 
she said calmly, “Tell the doctor to go 
away. There is nothing to be done. I 





The Symbol 71 

wish to speak to you alone.” This she 
said in a determined way. 

Going back to her, he looked in her 
eyes and she said, “Promise, so that 
I can come back again and I shall. . . •” 
The last words slipped away. 

She was gone. . . . 

Algernon stood motionless, petrified 
by grief. As he glanced down at her 
hand, he saw that it held the magnolia 
blossom and the words seemed to whis¬ 
per themselves into his ear, “Life is 
like that,—we live and die, to live 
again!” 





CHAPTER IX. 


DESPAIR. 

“But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still!” 

—Tennyson. 


OR ten years Algernon Em¬ 
mett Nichol lived a life of ab¬ 
solute seclusion. His grief 
was so deep, so consistent that 
his friends feared that he would develop 
melancholia. He seemed utterly indiffer¬ 
ent to life. The years dragged on like 
centuries to him. He never played upon 
his violin, and whenever the magnolia 
flowers were in blossom, he went away 
where he could not see them. He spent 
his years on the old plantation, living 
with the Harrisons. They tried to cheer 
him, but in vain. 

“But for my Cousin Mary,” he said 
to Payne Green, “I would have ended 
it all long ago. But she has been so 
tender and kind. A hundred times I 
have courted death, yet death eludes 
72 








Despair 73 

me, while my friends who wish to live 
have died. I cannot understand this 
riddle of existence. It seems to be a 
contrary scheme, a fate which takes 
away all the things one loves, forcing 
one to endure the things one does not 
love, to be tortured by loneliness, en¬ 
nui.” 

“Some day,” said his friend, “you 
will change, even forget. I say this in 
all reverence. And have you forgotten 
your promise to her?” 

“I did not quite promise, and that 
was a fantastic idea—a hope of hers that 
I might be comforted. She could not 
have meant what she said, my friend. 
The very sight of other women is ob¬ 
noxious to me. They are so insignificant 
in comparison to Rosa.” 

“Yes,” said Payne Green. “But Rosa 
had strange beliefs, you know. At least 
they would seem strange to the Occiden¬ 
tal world. She was an Eastern Scholar. 
I talked to her of such things even more 
than you. She believed firmly in rein¬ 
carnation, as they do in the Orient, 
where it is practically a creed.” 





! . ' ' ■■ 

74 dn Old-Fashioned Romance 

“I know, but it cannot be,” said Al¬ 
gernon. “I can never love again, and 
marriage without love is hideous—it 
is impossible to me.” 

“Anyhow, I hope you do marry again, 
my friend. Yours is a lonely life. For¬ 
give me for speaking to you in this way, 
but I know that Rosa would want it 
so.” 

“Yes, my life is lonely, but sincere 
and consecrated.” 

“Mrs. Harrison gives a dinner this 
evening, Algernon. Will you come to, 
please her?” 

“No, I am going over to your house, 
if I may, to get away from it.” 

Just then Mary Harrison entered* 
“You will come down this eve¬ 
ning, won’t you? The most beautiful 
woman in the country, Mattie Watson, 
will be here. All the men admire 
her.” 

“I am sure they do, Cousin Mary, but 
please excuse me. I thank you, but I 
do not care to meet anyone.” 

“But it is ten years, my dear. Ten 
years, do you realize that?” 





Despair 75 

“Do I realize it, Cousin Mary? How 
can you ask that?” 

“You ask him, Payne,” said his cousin. 
“Perhaps you can persuade him.” 

“I have, but he is determined not to 
meet your friends.” 

“I am sorry, Cousin Mary,” Algernon 
said in a commanding way. “Ask me 
anything else but this. I am going to 
ride over to Mr. Green’s this evening. 
I hope that you will enjoy yourselves 
without me. I cannot be present. It 
is impossible.” 

And then the days went on. The 
horrible reconstruction days still in ex¬ 
istence, the hideousness of which can 
hardly be imagined, the radical changes, 
things reversed, distorted and incongru¬ 
ous. Life in the South became gro¬ 
tesque. The negroes who were once 
servants and slaves now were elected as 
judges, in power over the whites. The 
beautiful homes burnt to the ground. 
Others left standing like lonely monu¬ 
ments—white tombs to shelter dead 
hopes, anguish and wounded pride. 





76 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

Yet the women smiled through their 
tears and the men adapted themselves 
to the new situation with courage, yet 
with one cry in their souls, “Our dead 
sweet South—our beautiful country of 
chivalry and love, dead, yet infinitely 
sweet!” 

The days of hardship and despair 
dragged. Gray days, with never the 
sun in the hearts of those left to look 
upon ashes. Even the birds seemed to 
feel the change. There was a stillness 
everywhere. The trees seemed to bow 
their heads in sorrow. The moon came 
up in some pathetic way, hanging list¬ 
lessly in the sky! 

Over the old plantation was a shroud, 
a gray phantom of >death, for the old 
South was dead! 





CHAPTER X. 

A LADY WITH A FAN. 

Who let me say is this stranger—regards me 
With the grey eyes and the lovely brown hair? 

—Matthew Arnold. 

NOTHER year passed. Elev¬ 
en years since the death of 
Algernon NichoPs beautiful 
wife. Mary Harrison was giv¬ 
ing another dinner-dance. 

“You will come this time, won’t you, 
Algernon?” she said pleadingly. 

“He has got to come,” said her hus¬ 
band. “I fixed it so he cannot get out of 
it. I am tired of begging him to come.” 

“Look here,” he said, walking up to 
Algernon, “Read this.” Holding out 
a letter, he said, “After you read this, 
you dare not refuse.” 

The letter read: 

“My dear Mr. Harrison: 

Your postscript added to Mrs. Har¬ 
rison’s letter will make me doubly eager 
to come to visit you on Thursday even- 
77 





78 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


mg. I accept your invitation with great 
pleasure. I have so often heard of the 
handsome Mr. Nichol, and look for¬ 
ward to meeting him. 

Sincerely, 

Mattie Hunt Watson.” 

“Well, you played a trick on me, 
Cousin Wade, and I will come, of 
course. But I will get even with you 
afterwards.” 

“Well,” said his cousin, “I am willing 
for the ‘afterwards.’ You will thank 
me with all your heart. She is lovely, 
I tell you—a beauty. And rides splen¬ 
didly. She is witty and accomplished, 
and is beautifully gowned. She wears 
roses—red roses—in her hair. A bit 
of a coquette, I think—uses her fan a 
great deal, and prettily.” 

“Is she tall and dark?” said Algernon, 
still picturing his wife in every¬ 
thing. 

“No, she is petite, gray eyes, I think, 
and dark brown hair. Very white com¬ 
plexion. Tiny feet, adorable ankles.” 
“Well it sounds interesting. Of 





A Lady with a Fan 79 

course, you would see the ankles, Cou¬ 
sin Wade. Better watch him, Cousin 
Mary,” he continued, “I think he is in 
love with her himself.” 

“Of course, I am. Mary knows that. 
All discriminating men are in love with 
Mattie Watson. I am for one, and 
Payne Green, and you will be when you 
see her.” 

“Well, to fascinate two such fastid¬ 
ious gentlemen proves that she must be 
unique, but leave me out of it. I will 
come, of course, but I am not the least 
bit interested.” 


As Algernon Nichol walked up and 
down the veranda with his cousin, Jen¬ 
nie Phillips, from the Eastern Shore 
of Maryland, he said, “Jennie, who is 
the lady sitting there with Dunbar 
Shields at the end of the veranda?” 

Jennie Phillips pretended not to see 
for a moment, for she did not want her 
cousin to meet one who promised to be 
a dangerous rival. 

“Oh, I cannot see quite. I think it 





8 o An Old-Fashioned Romance 


is Mattie Watson. You have heard of 
her, I believe.” 

“Yes, yes—Cousin Wade admires her 
very much.” 

Just at this time Mattie Watson said 
to her cousin, Dunbar Shields, “Who 
is the handsome man walking there with 
Jennie Phillips?” 

“I do not know. I cannot quite see,” 
replied Dunbar Shields impatiently. 

“Oh, I will point them out to you. 
She is wearing a blue dress. They are 
walking toward us now. Of course, you 
can see.” 

“Oh, yes, that is a friend of mine. He 
is known in the country as ‘Prince 
Nichol.’ He does not care for women, 
however, and for society. He has never 
been anywhere since his wife died, 
eleven years ago. This is his first ap¬ 
pearance since her death. A beautiful 
woman she was—Rosa Gordon.” 

“What a rhythmical name—so 
strong. It attracts me.” 

“Yes,” said her cousin, “they are 
walking this way. I think he wants to 
meet you.” 





A Lady with a Fan 


81 


Just then the couple stopped in front 
of them. “Mattie,” said Jennie Phil¬ 
lips, “may I present my cousin, Mr. 
Nichol?” 

Mattie Watson, holding out her tiny 
hand, said, “I’ve heard of you very 
often, Mr. Nichol. Mrs. Harrison, 
your cousin, is my very good friend.” 

Bowing in graceful fashion, Algernon 
said, “I have looked forward to this 
pleasure with keen anticipation.” 

Dunbar Shields got up suddenly and 
said, “Have my seat, Algernon. I am 
glad to see you again.” This he said 
politely, but with a trace of resentment 
in his voice, for he dreaded the hand¬ 
some man whom he feared would attract 
his cousin. 

Jennie Phillips and Dunbar Shields 
walked slowly away, while Algernon 
Nichol took the chair by Mattie Wat¬ 
son, who held her fan gracefully. Her 
small hands moved the fan carelessly 
in some quaint fashion. Her very small 
feet peeped out from among the ruf¬ 
fles and lace of her black gown. A 
large, red rose was caught over her ear, 





82 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


back of which was a Spanish comb. 
Around her shoulders was a black scarf 
of rare lace. The small fan was red, 
and at her waist was a buckle, which 
caught up some more roses. In the 
buckle were red stones, rubies, which 
flashed in the night. Her neck was 
strangely white, her lips red, her large, 
gray eyes heavily shadowed by long 
lashes, her nose was straight and turned 
up just a little bit, which gave a rather 
coquettish expression to her face. 

“Will you walk with me, Miss Wat¬ 
son? I do not dance.” 

“With pleasure,” she said, still using 
her fan prettily. 

And then she said, “You do not 
dance. How can you resist a waltz? I 
love to waltz. It makes me think of 
Spain.” 

“Spain?” asked Algernon Nichol, and 
then he noticed again her gown with 
the Spanish lace, the red roses, the lit¬ 
tle fan. 

“Yes,” he said, “I can quite see why 
you would like to waltz.” 

They walked up and down the ve- 





A Lady with a Fan 83 

randa for some minutes, and then Dun¬ 
bar Shields came to claim her for a 
dance, taking her into the ballroom. 

Before she left, she said, “I have al¬ 
ways admired the Spanish aristocracy. 
It appeals to me deeply, personally, 
somehow, I might say.” 

“Have you been in Spain?” 

“No, I haven’t. That is the strange 
part of it, and yet I love it so.” 

The waltz began, and Mattie Watson 
danced exquisitely, and, moreover, she 
knew it, and she knew that her new 
acquaintance was admiring her dancing 
from the veranda. As she danced past 
the windows, she looked up and saw 
him. She gave him a look, which was 
both a challenge and a confession. He 
looked at her, but did not smile. It 
was an earnest look, but he was in some 
kind of dream, for a moment, for this 
new personality brought some strange 
memory. It was both recognition and 
remembrance. 

“Strange,” he said to himself, “I feel 
that I have known her always.” 

When Mattie Watson finished her 





84 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


dance, she walked up to her hostess and 
said, “Mrs. Harrison, I have met your 
cousin, and strangely enough, I seem to 
have met him before.” 

“Really, how interesting. I shall tell 
him. Perhaps you saw him at a ball 
in Natchez years ago.” 

“Oh, I was too young to go to balls 
years ago, Mrs. Harrison,” she answered 
prettily, and then began using her fan. 

“You are never without your fan, 
are you Mattie? This is a new one, 
evidently.” 

“Yes, do you like it? If you do, I 
will get you one in gray or white, per¬ 
haps.” 

“Thank you, dear, but I never use a 
fan. It takes a pretty woman to do 
that gracefully.” 





CHAPTER XI. 


LETTERS. 

“When Knighthood Was In Flower.” 


ICK again took a hurried ride 
through the country, but this 
time to Huntley, and not to 
Homewood. He carried a let¬ 
ter and a huge bouquet of red roses. This 
was the answer to the letter: 



“My dear Mr. Nichol: 

It will give me pleasure to take the 
ride with you tomorrow evening. Thank 
you for the roses. They are beautiful. 

Sincerely, 

Mattie Hunt Watson.” 

Huntley, 

April 17th.” 

A few weeks after that, Dick went 
back with another message, and this was 
the answer: 


85 









86 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Dear Mr. Nichol: 

I have no engagement for this even¬ 
ing, and it will afford me pleasure to 
take the ride with you. The weather 
has been so bad that I was afraid it was 
destined for us not to have the race. 
Accept many thanks for the beautiful 
flowers. I assure you that they are 
highly appreciated. 

Hoping to see you this evening, I am, 
Sincerely, 

Mattie Hunt Watson. 

Huntley, 

May 9th.” 

A few days after this, in answer to 
another letter, the faithful Dick brought 
this answer: 

“My dear Mr. Nichol: 

Your letter and the music were 
received and highly appreciated. I shall 
practice the accompaniment so as to be 
ready to play with you Thursday. 
Mother and I are going to Fay- 
etts today. Your letter did not reach 
me in time to grant your request, the 
former one, I mean. I am glad to hear 
that you have enjoyed your visits to 





Letters 87 

Huntley. I was afraid that you had 
found them dull. You must come often, 
and I will do all in my power to make 
you have a pleasant time. 

I will also take particular pains to 
practice and pay more attention to my 
music, so as not to be accused of practic¬ 
ing in your presence again, as Mother 
gave me the credit of doing the last time 
you were here. 

It was very kind of you to send the 
violin over. It will be quite a treat to 
have you play. 

Mother wishes to be kindly remembered 
to you. I shall expect you on Thursday. 
Sincerely, 

Mattie Hunt Watson. 

Huntley, 

May 14th.” 

Another letter: 

“Dear Mr. Nichol: 

Mr. Payne Green is coming for 
dinner, and we would be glad to have 
you with him. Do come up this evening 
at eight, and tell me that I am pretty. 
Yours sincerely, 

Mattie Hunt Watson. 

Huntley, 

May 26th.” 





88 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


One of his letters: 

“I wish to present a handsome fan to 
a very handsome lady. She is seldom 
seen without a fan; in fact, it seems to 
be almost a part of her personality. She 
has however, the very extraordinary 
habit of partially, and at times almost 
entirely, concealing her face with her 
fan, when it is not in motion. Strange 
habit, is it not, for a pretty woman? 

Algernon Emmett Nichol.” 

“Troy, Louisiana, 
August 3rd, 

My dear Mattie: 

After leaving you on last Tuesday 
evening, I rode slowly along until my 
cigar went out, after which I scarcely 
knew how I got on, for loss of rest for 
the four or five previous nights—those 
sleepless, terrible nights until I knew 
your answer—combined with the long 
and fatiguing trip of the day, made the 
inclination to sleep irresistible, so, plac¬ 
ing my hands on the pommel of the 
saddle, and grasping it firmly, I soon be¬ 
came oblivious of everything, and could 
only be brought partially to my senses 
when I would reel in my saddle so much 





Letters 89 


as to come near falling off, or my horse, 
by the irregularity and uncertainty of his 
movements in passing over bad places 
would force me to be more careful. I 
could, with difficulty, refrain from dis¬ 
mounting, hitching my horse and throw¬ 
ing myself right down on the ground, 
not only to sleep, because of my great 
fatigue, but for the hope of a dream 
of you. However, I stood it out, 
and arrived home after a two hour 
trip. 

The next morning I had to go to Mr. 
Green’s, where I remained all night, 
for the “Shaw” met with an acci¬ 
dent,—both her rudders,—and failed to 
put in an appearance at the landing, 
having pushed up through the “cut-off.” 
While waiting at the landing, I went 
into some old friends of mine, the 
Millers and the Brandons. As I was 
leaving, Jimmie Brandon said laugh¬ 
ingly to me, “Look here, old fellow, 
Mississippi seems to agree with you. I 
thought you were living in Louisiana 
lately,” and Mrs. Brandon quizzically 
added, “We hear that you are a great 
admirer of fans.” I tried to laugh it 
off, but I fear that your desire to keep 





90 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

our engagement secret will not be 
possible. 

After a long tedious trip up the Mis¬ 
sissippi, I got off at St. Joseph, and 
rode over to my plantation. 

Dear, dear little woman, I do not 
believe that any man ever loved a 
woman as much as I love you. I am 
living quite in another world. When I 
am alone, I have my thoughts or dreams 
of you, and when I am with people, 
I am so restless and impatient that I 
am not myself. Whenever I can get 
away from them I either walk the 
gallery, or ride horse-back. I love with 
a wild and intense longing, which, when 
I see you, or even think of you, throws 
me into a state of ecstasy. It seems that 
I must throw aside every obstacle and 
go to you, and make you my wife now. 
But I have a duty to perform here, in 
which not only business, but honour is 
involved, and it means much to our 
future welfare. And I cannot give up 
and relax the reins, but must push 
ahead and force a successful issue, 
come what will. 

I know nothing of your business, and 
it would be indelicate in me to attempt 





Letters 91 

to pry into it, but infer in a general way 
that it has not been successfully or satis¬ 
factorily managed of late, since your 
father’s death. It shall be my aim and 
pleasure to work out your problems, but 
first I must work out the problems here, 
since they mean so much to both of us. 

Today I have been riding in the 
cotton fields and how terrible the con¬ 
trast here, alone, after having been in 
an Elysium of happiness. For a man 
to come down to reality, to the prac¬ 
tical, after having spent two such 
delightful evenings with the prettiest 
little woman in the world, and that 
woman all his own, is something hard 
to bear, and something I do not fancy. 

I suppose it is a man’s nature not to be 
satisfied, for the more he gets, the more 
he wants, and I will never be satisfied 
until I can get a pair of strong arms 
around you and call you all mine. Do 
you remember when I sat just beside 
you before leaving Huntley on Tues¬ 
day evening? I can never forget it. 
You caught me looking admiringly 
at your dress. You have the most ex¬ 
quisite taste in dress. You are beauti¬ 
ful in black, as I first saw you, more 





92 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


beautiful in white, and I want to see you 
in pink the next time I come to see you. 
It is a severe test I am putting you to, 
but I believe you can stand it. 

Yes, Mattie, I told you truly, in answer 
to your question, that I love you better 
than I have ever loved anyone. Heaven 
knows I mean no disrespect to the 
memory of the dead when I say this, 
for Rosa Gordon was superb and I 
loved her deeply, but perhaps there was 
more admiration than love, and she, 
like you, Mattie Watson, was a lady 
in whose veins flowed the bluest blood 
in the land. She was a splendid looking 
woman, brilliant and a true wife, but I 
was afraid to ask her to marry me. I 
felt the first time I ever saw you that 
I could ask you at once if I dared. 

Heaven bless my little woman and 
make her always think of me. 

Write often. Your quaint little 
letters mean everything to me now. 

Algernon. 

P. S. I have planted about 4,000 
acres in cotton, which will bring me out 
all right, notwithstanding the high 
water. This is a big come-down from 
last year, but the situation is difficult. 






Letters 93 

Forgive this practical note, but you 
know the pot must boil. 

I will go over next Thursday to Mr. 
Harrison’s and will come to you at the 
usual hour. Do not ride that horrible 
horse again, I beg you. 

Algernon.” 

“My dear Algernon: 

Your letter reached me yesterday 
evening, the contents of which has made 
me the happiest little woman in the 
world. I consider that you have be¬ 
stowed the greatest honour that a true 
nobleman can bestow upon a lady. Of 
course, you must have guessed long 
before you asked me to marry you that 
your feeling was reciprocated. I honour 
and respect you so much that I feel con¬ 
fident I will never regret the step I am 
taking. You ought not to have thought 
that I would ever flirt with you, for 
I never trifle with one’s serious affec¬ 
tions. If I had not been pleased with 
you, I would not have encouraged your 
visits here. I am going to Rodney this 
morning so you must pardon this short 
note. Do come over as soon as possible. 

Mattie. 





94 dn Old-Fashioned Romance 

P. S. I miss you so. I cannot 
describe my loneliness since you left. 
Indeed, I am not happy except in your 
charming society. I really do not know 
what to do with myself when you are 
away. Of course, it is different with 
you, for you have business affairs to 
divert your mind. I love you so, 
my dear “Mr. Nichol.” Somehow, 
I always think of you as “Mr. 
Nichol” 

I am going to try to make you such 
a good little wife and your home so 
bright and happy that you will never 
cease to love me. If your feeling 
toward me should ever change, it would 
break my heart, but you will never hear 
one word of complaint or reproach 
from me. 

I enjoyed the nice ride so much, and 
hope your horse was not injured in any 
way. You ride so splendidly. You are 
so brave and manly that I feel that 
nothing in the world can harm me, but 
I must confess I did have a hard time 
keeping up with you. I cannot imagine 
how a lady can fancy a frail, delicate 
man. I certainly prefer broad shoulders 
to lean upon. I take my fan out every 





Letters 95 

day and look at it, but I do not intend 
to use it until you come again. 

I think Mother is more and more 
pleased with you every day. When she 
is convinced that you are kind to me, 
she will be very fond of you, I am sure. 
You know that I am her only daughter, 
and she has always idolized me, so it 
is natural for her to dislike the idea 
of giving me up to anyone. 

This postscript is longer than the 
letter. It is the first long letter I ever 
wrote. 

Your devoted, 

Mattie. 

Huntley, 

August 6th.” 

“Dear Algernon: 

I was out riding Saturday evening 
when the boy returned with the mail. 

I was so impatient to hear from you 
that I did not wait to get to the house 
to open your letter, but I rode along 
slowly and read it. If anyone had 
passed the road just then, it would have 
been amusing to see a lady reading a 
letter on horseback, especially on a 
horse who is so highly strung as mine. 





96 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


It was very kind and noble of you to 
write me in regard to my religion. You 
know that I am a Convert, all of my 
family having been Episcopalian and 
Presbyterian. Many have thought that 
the Roman Catholic religion appealed 
to me on account of its artistic ritual, 
the rosaries, candles, incense, etc., but 
it is not so. I believe it to be the true 
and consistent religion. 

Words are inadequate to express the 
great joy I feel in knowing that you 
respect my religion, and another thing 
that has brought me great joy is that 
you love me better than you did your 
first wife. That is a great compliment, 
since I have heard what a wonderful 
and superior lady she was. But I do 
not think it is possible for anyone to 
love you so naturally, so simply, as I 
love you, which I will prove to you 
in the years of devotion if we are 
spared. 

Mattie. 

Huntley, 

September 8th.” 






Letters 97 


Troy, Louisiana, 
September 24, 
“My darling little Woman: 

I got back home by Sunday evening, 
after a long and disagreeable trip. Fre¬ 
quently on the way I would think of 
that ride of ours of the previous even¬ 
ing, and I felt as though I would give 
anything to exchange the one I was then 
having for it again. I have been so 
sad and depressed ever since I got back 
home, for I am lost without you and my 
love for you amounts to a frenzy. It 
is the separation, even though only for 
a few days, which is unbearable. Oh, 
little woman, if you only knew how my 
heart is filled with love and pride in 
thinking that you are soon to be my 
wife, and when you are, I shall find a 
thousand ways to make you happy 
always. This shall be my religion, to 
make happy the woman I love. It is the 
lover now who speaks. You will never 
know the husband in the conventional 
sense, for I shall always be the lover. 

I sometimes think that I might bore 
you by my incessant protestations of 
love, but I cannot help it Mattie. You 
will forgive me, I know. Your letters 





98 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


I love—they are like little messages 
from another sphere. 

And, may I give you some advice? 
In your letter you spoke that there was 
a report that you wished to sell your 
property. This desire on your part 
should be kept as a secret, for if it is 
known that you wish to sell, it might 
occasion very considerable loss to you. 
Your manager might cease to interest 
himself in your business, and your 
laborers could, and doubtless would, 
harm you in many ways. Whenever 
there is a transfer of property, they in¬ 
variably begin to pillage, tear-down and 
destroy. 

Do not suppose for one instance that 
I am presuming to dictate to you, little 
woman. It is the hope that I may be 
of assistance to you by suggestion which 
prompts me to write in this way. 

With my kind regards to your 
Mother, I am 

Your devoted, 

Algernon.” 

“My dearest Algernon: 

You speak in your letter of the possi¬ 
bility of boring me with your attentions. 





Letters 99 

That is impossible, I assure you. I only 
wish now that you had asked me to 
marry you the first night I met you. It 
would have been so perfectly natural, 
though unconventional, I presume. 

It was kind of you to advise me about 
the plantation, and I shall be guided 
by your advice. You have such remark¬ 
able understanding of things, practical 
things, as well as artistic things. I am 
sure that you could never be wrong in 
anything. 

After you left the last time, I went 
up to my room and shed a few tears. 
Now, do not laugh at me, for I tried 
my best to overcome this feeling of sad¬ 
ness, but did not succeed in doing so for 
some time. I generally look on the 
bright side of everything, and I am 
always so cheerful, that I cannot under¬ 
stand why I felt so strangely sad. Per¬ 
haps it is a premonition of some kind. 
You know that I have “second sight.” 
My grandmother was a Scotchwoman 
—a Ferguson—and I have inherited 
this strange power from her. I shall 
be very uneasy about you until I hear 
that you arrived home without an 
accident. 





ioo An Old-Fashioned Romance 


These days, when you stay away 
from me, are such dreary blanks, I wish 
I could see you more frequently, but 
I could not insist upon it, as I must 
study your interest. Please do not 
expose yourself unnecessarily. Remem¬ 
ber you have something to live for now, 
and I am a very important little lady, 
and you must obey orders. 

Good-by, dear “Mr. Nichol” and do 
not fail to write soon to your devoted 

Mattie. 

P. S. One month from today we 
shall be married. Thank you for the 
red roses. It was sweet of you to think 
of me. 

I am so thankful that you have given 
your consent for me to live at Huntley 
with my Mother, for she would be very 
lonely without me. I can go over the 
river with you sometimes, dear “Mr. 
Nichol,” and when you are obliged to 
attend to business, you need not be sur¬ 
prised if I will want to go with you 
every time. The more I see of you, the 
more I want to see you. 

I have written my great-uncle, Dun¬ 
bar Hunt, about you, and he wants us to 





Letters ioi 


visit him at Ft. Pendleton, Md. You 
know that I am related to the Pendle¬ 
tons, and it makes me think, apropos of 
this, that if we ask only relatives to our 
wedding, even then the house will not 
be large enough to hold them, for there 
are so many—the Marshalls, the 
Shields, the Balfours, the Pendletons, 
the Ogdens, the Archers, the Watsons, 
the Fergusons, The Dandridges, the— 
Oh, well, I cannot remember all of 
them, but I would like to ask some of 
them, but cannot manage it without 
offense to many. My Uncle Dunbar, of 
course, will be here. He has been at 
Berkely Springs enjoying the delightful 
baths. He is now at a place twelve 
miles from Oakland, a station on the 
B. & O. R. R., about three thousand feet 
above sea, on top of the Alleghany 
Mountains. The atmosphere is ex¬ 
hilarating, he says. The house is beau¬ 
tiful, formerly the country summer 
resort of Colonel Pendleton of Cin¬ 
cinnati, but is perfectly retired, and so 
like Huntley, he says. 

I am sure that you are amused at this 
postscript. It is really another letter— 
is it not? Mattie. 





102 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Huntley, 

October 1st.” 

“My darling Husband: 

I intend to send Amos up to town 
early in the morning just for the express 
purpose of getting the dear letter you 
promised to write me. There is no 
doubt in the world about my being 
deeply in love with my husband. Why, 
I am miserable when I am separated 
from him. It was as much as I could 
do yesterday to keep back the tears 
when I saw you ride off, but I know it 
is the duty of a good wife to study her 
husband’s interests in every respect, and 
not to be a drawback, so I try hard to 
control my feelings, for it would be 
wrong for me to do anything to pre¬ 
vent you from attending to your busi¬ 
ness. You are so unselfish in allowing 
me to live with my Mother that I must 
not show my grief at our parting. No 
one in the world could be half so good 
as my darling. 

Mr. Payne passed by Huntley one 
day last week and sent his love to you. 
I asked him to come often. I know it 
will give you pleasure to see your old 





Letters 103 

friends when you are on this side of the 
river. 

Katherine Minor is coming to visit 
us next week. I do wish you could be 
here to meet her. She possesses that 
unusual combination of brains and 
beauty. Mother and I look forward 
to her visit with great pleasure. You 
know that her great-great-grandfather, 
Stephen Minor, was the first Governor 
of Mississippi, after the Spanish va¬ 
cated, and was given the name of Don, 
on account of his kindness to the 
Indians. 

You know how dearly I love Natchez, 
and I like to think of you there, at your 
shooting club, the Gilliard Club. It is, 
indeed, a rare treat to drive into 
Natchez, from Huntley, and pass the 
stately old homes, and I always associ¬ 
ate them with you, especially the 
Prentiss home, Gloucester, where Rosa 
Gordon lived. Her sister, Mrs. Sar- 
geant, is a delightful woman—in fact, 
all of the family are charming. 

The Prentiss family, I know well, and 
I suppose it is quite a safe thing to say 
that S. S. Prentiss was one of the most 
brilliant orators of the country. You, 





104 A 71 Old-Fashioned Romance 

of course, think that no one ever talked 
so brilliantly as Robert Ingersoll. How 
beautiful Arlington is. You know it, 
of course—the Boyd residence. I am 
sure that Adams and Jefferson Counties 
are unique in their brilliant and aristo¬ 
cratic families. I remember hearing my 
father say that one had to be clever, 
indeed, to fence mentally with his 
friends in Natchez. 

Sometimes I think, if one could write 
down the quick repartee, the gracious, 
chivalrous answers, that a famous book 
could be written, easily and intelligently. 
Of course, I think no one can equal Mr. 
Payne Green, even if he is not so 
famous as S. S. Prentiss and Robert 
Ingersoll! 

As I write, a South wind blows the 
perfume from our garden. It is a 
divine combination of roses, hyacinths, 
violets and every imaginable shrub. 
The orioles are singing beautifully, to¬ 
day. They seem so happy, as they dart 
around the garden. The sky is so blue. 
It is like a veil of chiffon, which seems 
to touch the Heavens. I can under¬ 
stand the Chinese love to paint the 
sky, and the white clouds. I never tire 





Letters 105 

of them. One seems to forget the 
Earth entirely, when looking at them. 

I must run away now, as my Mother 
is calling me. You know that she is not 
happy, if I am out of her sight. 

Yesterday I wore a blue dress; it was 
so becoming, and I was regretting all 
the time that my darling was not here 
to admire his little wife. I am only 
happy in your charming society. Your 
devoted Mattie. 

P. S. You must not worry about my 
riding Halpin, for I have him under 
perfect control. The last time I rode 
him, however, instead of getting off at 
the horse block, I jumped off on an 
iron chair at the front steps, and my 
foot slipped, and I think my arm was 
sprained, which pained me for several 
days, but Halpin was not to blame for 
this. He stood quite still, so do not 
worry about him any more. 

My cousins, the Archers, are visiting 
us. They are anxious to meet you and 
are amused when I speak of you always 
as “Mr. Nichol. ,, They are going to 
New Orleans from here. Come soon 
to see the little woman who loves you 
so dearly. Mattie. 





io6 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Huntley, 

December 20th.” 

“Troy, Louisiana, 

My darling Mattie: 

It all seems a dream. I cannot 
realize even now that I am a father, 
that we have been married for a year, 
that the horrible nightmare, the fear, 
has passed, that you are really well and 
happy. I think so much of my beautiful 
little wife, and our baby, that I find it 
impossible to sleep at night sometimes. 
I feel that I should not be away under 
any circumstance, my darling, but you 
know that it is through no choice 
of my own, but the force of circum¬ 
stances, and your desire to live at 
Huntley. 

Good-by, little wife, until Thursday 
night. 

Your devoted Husband. 

P. S. Do I fancy it, that the eyes of 
this little girl of ours seem to fasten 
themselves upon me as they do the 
light? I wonder if I imagine it, or if it 
is possible for a mere baby to be so in¬ 
telligent and personal. She seems to like 
me better than she does you. Strange, 
isn’t it, Mattie?” 





Letters 107 

“Troy, Louisiana, 
January 12th, 

My darling Mattie: 

I am quite sure now that it is not 
imagination that the baby loves me best. 

I know this will not hurt your generous 
heart, for if it is so, you have made it 
so by your constant thought of me. I 
have never seen such eyes of love, but 
such sad eyes, too. Our little Laura 
not only fascinates, but haunts me. I 
am sure it is not imagination, because 
Dick and all the servants have noticed 
it too, or perhaps you think they agree 
to please me? I don’t know. 

Dick has been waiting for some time 
to take this letter, so good-bye again. 

Your devoted Husband.” 

“Troy, Louisiana, 

My darling Mattie: 

Few men can truly boast of two years 
of perfect happiness and soon I shall 
be able to arrange my business so that 
I can stay more at Huntley. I am so 
sorry to hear of your indisposition but 
glad that it is only a slight illness. You 
are so strong and well. I am sure that 
in a few days you will be yourself again. 





io8 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


I can never associate illness with you. 
It does not belong to you so that I know 
in a few days I will have good news 
from you. 

My love to little Laura with the 
strange, dark eyes, and always my dear¬ 
est love to you. 

t Your devoted Husband.” 





CHAPTER XII. 


LAURA. 

She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong, 
Her tears are in the falling rain, 

She calls me in the wind’s soft song, 

And with the flowers she comes again. 

Yon bird is but her messenger, 

The moon is but her silver car; 

Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, 

And every wistful waiting star. 

—Richard LeGallienne. 



HEN Laura was old enough to 
observe intelligently she con¬ 
tinued to gaze at her father for 
minutes at a time. When he 
left the room, she would turn her head 
and watch him. Sometimes she would 
break into a sudden cry and when he re¬ 
turned she would stop crying abruptly 
and smile through her tears at him. 
When she was old enough to be controlled 
a little, no one could control her at all ex¬ 
cept her father. She utterly ignored the 
wishes of others, but anything that he 
wished was accepted graciously by her. 

109 




no An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Her beautiful Mother seemed to have no 
charm for her. 

“Laura loves you exclusively,” said the 
little Mother one day. “Perhaps it is be¬ 
cause of my constant thought of you held 
so strongly in love before her birth. It 
is prenatal influence.” 

“Yes, undoubtedly,” said her husband. 
“But the way she looks at me is almost 
unearthly. It frightens me at times. It 
is a bit uncanny, I think. The mature 
love in her look, the tenderness, the pas¬ 
sion, and always as though she is afraid 
of losing me. Sometimes she looks 
frightened when I leave the room, and the 
look of keen joy when I return is unde¬ 
niable. It is compelling. It is, of course, 
your love, dear Matty, transmitted into 
her soul. Poor little thing, already she 
knows the agony of love, the fear as well 
as the joy of it.” 

“Yes, ‘Mr. Nichol,’ she watches the 
door continuously, and when I take her 
in my arms she seems quite indifferent. 
Almost bored, I might say, and some¬ 
times disdainful. Have you noticed how 
imperious she is already? She is very 





Laura 


hi 


determined and may be arrogant as she 
grows older.” 

“I have never seen such strange but 
marvellously beautiful eyes,” continued 
his wife. “At times they are so sad and 
wise, and again they look as though they 
held a sun in them—something radiating 
warmth and color. Dr. Coleman says 
that she is unusually intelligent and con¬ 
siders her quite a beauty, you know.” 

“Yes, but a strange beauty.” 

“Everyone notices her, and the servants 
are quite superstitious about her. Of 
course, your valet Dick insists that she is 
haunted.” 





CHAPTER XIII. 


A JANUARY NIGHT. 

A place to stand and love in for a day, 

With darkness and the death-hour rounding it 
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

i rain was pouring in torrents 
d melting the heavy snow, 
was a January night. There 
is no other sound beside the 
rain, except the constant barking of a dog. 
It seemed more a wail than a bark, and 
awakened Algernon Nichol from a deep 
sleep. He turned up the oil lamp and 
tried to read, but he could not. He felt 
strange, nervous, excited, expectant. He 
got up and lit a cigar, stirred the fire be¬ 
cause it was the only thing that could 
cheer him in the least. After a while he 
heard a sudden knock at the door. 

“How strange,’’ he thought, for it was 
then two o’clock in the morning. 

There was silence for a moment, and 
then a louder knock. Getting up quickly, 
he hurried to the door. 



112 








A January Night 113 


“Who’s there?” he said. 

“It is a telegram,” answered a hoarse 
voice. 

He opened the door quickly. A negro 
man stood in the door. 

“Lost my way, boss, or would have 
been here in time fo’ you to catch the 
boat. Terrible night, sir. The boss at the 
telegraph office couldn’t get anyone to 
take this to you except me.” 

The words “in time to catch the boat” 
startled Algernon Nichol, and he tore 
open the telegram hurriedly. He read 
these words “Come at once, your wife 
very ill, Signed, Dr. Coleman.” He 
reeled for a moment, and caught the door 
to steady himself. 

“Call Dick,” he said to the negro ser¬ 
vant. “Hurry, hurry.” And then, still 
holding on to the door, he stood there 
motionless for several moments. 

Dick came in in a startled way. 
“Buddy, honey, Marse Algy,” he said, 
“what am de matter?” 

“The boat has passed the landing. 
There is no other way until tomorrow,” 
and then he stood for a moment and said 





114 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


suddenly “Yes, there is. Saddle the 
horses—my horse Dexter and a fast one 
for yourself, and hurry, I tell you, 
hurry.” 

Throwing on his clothes, a rain coat 
and heavy boots, he grabbed a revolver, 
thrusting it into his pocket. Dick was 
back in a few minutes. 

“The horses are ready, suh, but it’s a 
turrible night, suh. As black as ink.” 

“Yes, I know,” said his master. “Get 
a flask of whiskey. Bring the horses to 
the front door.” This he said calmly, 
but Dick could see that he was in a ter¬ 
rible state of excitement. 

“Where are we goin’, Marse Algy?” 

“We cannot catch the boat at the next 
landing—we are going to ride through 
the country to St. Joseph, then get a skiff 
and cross the Mississippi, get more horses 
at the landing, cross the river and ride 
to Huntley.” 

“You can’t do it, Marse Algy. It will 
take us till tomorrow to get there—to¬ 
morrow evening. And the creek may be 
up in Mississippi, and then we’ll not get 





A January Night 115 


there anyhow and we’ll miss the second 
boat.” 

“We are going anyhow,” said his mas¬ 
ter in a commanding voice. “I can swim 
my horse across the creeks. You can stay 
behind. Get the horses, I tell you.” 

“Yessir,” answered Dick. “You knows 
I’m goin’ with you but I jus’ wanted to 
remind you of the creeks.” 

“Yes, I thought of everything, Dick.” 

Putting on his spurs hurriedly, he 
followed Dick out into the black 
night. Mounting his horse Dexter, he 
pulled his felt hat down over his eyes, 
spurred his horse and was off in a 
gallop. 

Dick followed him. The dog howled 
as they rode away. 

Algernon Nichol was a splendid 
horseman and some magnificent power 
seemed to direct the horse as he rushed 
down the road, followed by the faithful 
servant. 

“He’ll kill himself,” muttered Dick. 
“It’s certain death, it’s so muddy. The 
mud will stick on the horse’s hoofs and 
trip him and break Buddy’s neck.” 





Ii6 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Oh, my Gawd,” he said aloud. “I 
wonder if he’s goin’ mad. I never seed 
such a look in anybody’s face before.” 

On, on they rode, blinded by the rain. 
For hours they rode. Once or twice the 
horses shied out of the road. Again they 
stumbled but went on just the same. The 
day began to break into gray, dismal. 
Finally they reached St. Joseph, engaged 
a skiff, left the horses at the landing and 
rowed across the Mississippi. The river 
was swollen and muddy, but they mas¬ 
tered the angry waves and reached the 
Mississippi side. 

Breathlessly Algernon Nichol ordered 
horses at the Rodney Landing and in a 
few moments was off again. 

Two hours passed and Dick said, 
“We’ll make it, boss, unless the creek is 
up.” His master did not answer him but 
spurred his horse on with grim determi¬ 
nation. In a few minutes Dick stopped. 

“Come on, Dick,” shouted his master. 

“I’m listening, suh. Hear a roarin’ 
noise. It’s up, suh, the creek is up. 
You’ll never get across. We better go 
back and try and catch the second boat.” 





A January Night 117 


“I will swim across,” muttered his 
master savagely, but when they drew near 
enough they found that Coles Creek was 
like a river, only more stirred, more 
tempestuous. It fairly roared and 
growled. There seemed to be strange, 
angry voices. It was muddy and ugly 
and horrible to look upon, and even the 
bravest rider could not swim across it. 
Algernon Nichol almost dashed into it, 
however, when Dick cried out, “For 
Gawd’s sake, don’t go in there. It means 
certain death.” 

The horse that Algernon Nichol rode 
was a strange horse to him and he longed 
for his Dexter that he had left on the 
Louisiana side of the Mississippi River, 
who would have been willing to go in, 
in spite of danger. He tried to force the 
strange horse into the creek, but the horse 
turned around abruptly. 

The second time the horse seemed to 
feel some compelling force and was about 
to follow the commanding voice which 
told him to go in, but Dick grabbed the 
bridle and said, “Buddy, Buddy, in the 
name of Gawd and your baby—. Stop, 





118 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


wait till it goes down. Wait a little 
while, anyhow.” 

At the mention of the baby’s name, 
Algernon Nichol suddenly remembered 
that he had a child. He had quite forgot¬ 
ten the child’s existence and winced a 
little as Dick unconsciously suggested 
that he no longer had a wife but a child 
to live for. 

“I have a wife to live for,” he said 
savagely to the servant. “Why do you 
mention my child? How dare you? I 
will kill you, Dick, if you speak again.” 

“Oh, yo’ wouldn’t hurt me, Buddy. 
Yo’ just excited. I never seed you like 
this before. Come ’long now and get off 
the horse and take a drink out of the 
flask. You’re shiverin’ with cold: and 
you might as well give up now ’cause I 
means it. If you tries to go in I’se going 
to pull you back jus’ like you was a little 
boy way back in Louisiany land. You 
’member how I used to keep you from 
gettin’ hurt all the time.” 

Like a bewildered child Algernon 
Nichol got off his horse slowly. “I guess 
your are right, Dick. There is no use in 





A January Night 119 


two people dying,” and then he caught 
his breath, as though having spoken sub¬ 
consciously, having unconsciously an¬ 
nounced that there had been a death. 

“We are both talking very strangely, 
Dick.” 

“Yessir,” answered Dick. “It’s ’cause 
we so excited.” 

“Yes,” answered his master, “but some¬ 
times when people are excited they get 
into some psychic condition which 
reveals the present and the future to 
them.” 

Walking up and down the sand he 
said, “Did you bring any matches, Dick? 
If so, go and gather some wood and make 
a fire.” 

“It’s too wet, Buddy; the logs would 
never burn. Jus’ take a drink and you’ll 
feel a little better. That’s why I brought 
it, you know.” 

The hours passed while the master and 
servant paced up and down the bank of 
Cole Creek until the daylight faded into 
darkness again. “It will never go down, 
Dick. I never saw it like that. So mean 
and angry and cruel.” 





120 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Yassuh,” said Dick. “I never seen 
anything so horrible. But jus’ a minute, 
suh. Look across the creek. Can you 
see those lanterns swinging to and fro?” 

“Yes,” said his master. “It is someone 
trying to get across this way, or someone 
who guessed we might come this way.” 

“Yas,” said Dick. “It’s good news, 
sure as you live,” he said, trying to cheer 
his master. 

The words “good news”—the iron in 
them—cut the soul of Algernon Nichol, 
but he said nothing except, “If I could 
only get across—if I could only get 
across. 

“Only two miles from the other side 
to Huntley, and this monster keeping me 
here. I always hated Coles Creek. It 
is the meanest creek in the world,” he 
said as his voice broke into a cry. 

“Don’t take on like that, sir,” said 
Dick. “I’m sure it’s gwine down in a lit¬ 
tle while. I’ll go down to the edge o’ the 
water and see if it has gone back a little.” 

Dick disappeared in the darkness. In 
a moment he shouted, “It’s goin’ down a 
little. Soon you can swim across. It’s 





A January Night 121 


gettin’ quiet now, too. It’s gone back 
about four feet in the last hour.” 

Algernon Nichol did not answer, but 
paced up and down in an agony of mind, 
while the dull lanterns swung to and fro 
across the creek in the darkness. 

In a half hour, Algernon Nichol said, 
“Dick, I’m going to try it. I cannot stand 
this any longer. I am going to swim 
across no matter what happens!” 

Going up to the strange horse, he patted 
him on the neck and said, “You’ll go 
across old man for me, won’t you?” The 
horse lifted his head and seemed to un¬ 
derstand the kind words and almost put 
his head against the handsome face as 
though to say, “I’ll do my best.” 

In a moment Algernon Nichol dashed 
into the creek. Dick tried to follow him, 
but his horse turned back and refused to 
go in. 

Algernon Nichol said to his horse, 
“Go on, go on, old fellow. Take me 
across!” 

The horse swam magnificently and in 
a few minutes reached the other side of 
the creek. 





122 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Algernon Nichol jumped off his horse 
and ran up to the lanterns. There was 
not a sound, only the darkness and the 
two lanterns which suddenly stopped 
swinging and were still for a moment. As 
he drew nearer, he caught the outline of 
two figures. He rushed forward and 
said, “Who is it?” Then as he drew 
closer he said, “Oh, it’s Cousin Wade! 
It is you. I am so glad. Tell me! Tell 
me!” But there was no answer. 

He caught hold of one of the lanterns 
abruptly, the one which was in his 
cousin’s hand. Holding it up to his face, 
it threw a ghastly light upon Wade Har¬ 
rison, who stood motionless and said 
nothing. 

“Speak to me, Cousin Wade. Am I 
dreaming? How strange everything is. 
How is Mattie?” 

Still there was no answer. Wade Har¬ 
rison looked helplessly at his companion, 
Payne Green, as though to say, “You tell 
him, I cannot.” 

Catching the look in the faces of these 
two gentlemen he knew that it was either 
a hopeless illness or death. 





A January Night 123 


“Which is it?” he said pleadingly, 
looking at his Cousin Wade who still did 
not answer. Grabbing him by both 
shoulders he said, “Speak, man, speak!” 

But Wade Harrison did not answer. 
He stood speechless with grief, and then 
Payne Green said slowly, tenderly, “Al¬ 
gernon, my boy, Mattie has gone. 
She-.” 

Algernon Nichol stood calmly for a 
moment, bewildered, stunned. Uttering a 
low, hoarse moan, he threw himself down 
upon the ground, his face in the mud, un¬ 
conscious of the surroundings. The two 
grim figures stood above him motionless. 
Finally Wade Harrison said, “Come 
along, my boy, with us.” But there was 
no answer. 

Finally Payne Green said, “The baby 
is there, you know.” Still no answer. 
And then Wade Harrison said “Laura is 
there. You must come with us, at once.” 

Realizing that his cousin was in an un¬ 
conscious state, he said to Payne Green, 
“You help me get him up. We’ll 
have to put him in the carriage. Call the 
driver.” 






124 ^ n Old-Fashioned Romance 

Payne Green putting down the lantern 
called the driver to his side. 

The three of them lifted Algernon 
Nichol into the carriage. He sat there 
with his head on Wade Harrison’s 
shoulder like a helpless child. 

“Drive carefully,” he said to the negro 
driver. “Be careful of the hills. They 
are slippery.” 

The carriage drove away, the wheels 
making a gruesome sound in the darkness. 

Once in a while a screech owl uttered 
its unearthly cry, and a dog howled in 
the distance. Not a word was said. 
Only the driver was heard cracking his 
whip occasionally and saying “Get up” 
to the horses. His voice sounded foreign, 
alien, quite unnatural, for he too dreaded 
the drive to Huntley, which meant that 
his master was to look upon death for the 
second time. 

In an hour they arrived at Huntley. 
It was still dark. Weird shadows deep¬ 
ened in the night. There was no wind— 
no sound. The stillness was unearthly. 

As they drew up in front of the door, 
Wade Harrison and Payne Green got 





A January Night 125 

out solemnly and practically lifted Alger¬ 
non Nichol out of the carriage. Mary 
Harrison greeted him and the mother of 
his wife greeted him. But he did not 
seem to see anyone. He walked past them 
with his eyes staring. He staggered a 
little, but insisted upon walking up the 
stairway alone—the one which led to his 
wife’s bedroom. 

Wade Harrison followed him. He 
walked calmly to the door and opened it, 
and then suddenly turned and said—“I 
cannot go in there, Cousin Wade.” 

Mattie Nichol lay upon her bed with 
tall candles at her head and at her feet, 
but instead of the usual crucifix, she held 
a fan, in her hand. She seemed to smile 
and looked like an angel lost in a beauti¬ 
ful dream. 

Algernon Nichol turned and looked at 
her. He then walked calmly up to her. 
He did not speak or cry out, but stood 
motionless for minutes. Then, suddenly, 
without a tear, he left the room. 

He went to the nursery where Laura 
was asleep. The nurse greeted him ten¬ 
derly. He did not seem to see her. 





126 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Taking Laura in his arms he walked 
out of the room, into the large hall. He 
walked up and down until morning, 
Laura asleep with her cheek against his. 
Once she awakened and put her arms 
more tightly around his neck. On and on 
he walked. Finally Wade Harrison 
went up to him and spoke, but he was not 
conscious of his presence. 

He then returned to his wife and said, 
“I fear for his mind. I have never seen 
such grief. I did not know that anyone 
could suffer so terribly, so deeply. You 
try and see what you can do. He does 
not notice me at all.” 

Leaving her husband and going to 
Algernon Nichol, she said, “It is morn¬ 
ing, Algernon. You must rest now. You 
must do so for my sake and for Laura.” 

“Rest,” he said, “Cousin Mary, rest? 
How strangely you speak. Do you not 
know that there can be no rest for me 
except in the grave? What things you 
say, all of you to me. It is because you 
do not understand—you, who are not ac¬ 
quainted with death.” 

“But I am acquainted with love, dear 





A January Night 127 

boy, and my heart breaks for you. Come, 
dear, just follow me.” 

“Yes, Cousin Mary,” he said and then 
added “Whatever you say, for nothing 
matters now ” 

Mary Harrison led him into his bed¬ 
room. “Call Dr. Coleman,” she said to 
her husband. 

The doctor entered slowly, solemnly. 
“Take off your coat, Mr. Nichol,” he said 
in a commanding way. “Take off your 
coat,” he said again, while Algernon 
Nichol looked at him in a dazed, be¬ 
wildered way. And then, like a weary 
child, he began taking off his coat, slowly. 

“Mrs. Harrison,” said the doctor, 
“roll up his sleeve.” 

In a second, Dr. Coleman had stuck a 
hypodermic needle into his patient’s 
arm, who did not notice it at all. He was 
too stunned to feel. 

“Now, you will sleep, Mr. Nichol,” 
said the Doctor kindly. “Lie down now 
and in a few minutes you will rest.” 

“There is that word again,” he said. 
“How strangely you all speak.” And 
then he said to his cousin Mary, “You 





128 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


never told me what the trouble was. It 
\vas all so sudden. What was it?” 

“Her heart,” answered his Cousin 
Mary. “It has not been so strong since 
Laura’s birth.” 

“I never knew anything about it. Why 
did you not tell me?” 

“Because it was her wish, and the doc¬ 
tor said she might have lived for years. 
There was a chance.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “that was like her. 
But what were her last words—her mes¬ 
sage?” 

“There was no message, but her last 
words to me, were, ‘Make-me-look-pret- 
ty-for-“Mr. Nichol ” ’ ” 





CHAPTER XIV. 


JASMINE. 


“I like the wild flowers best. 

They ask nothing and give everything.” 


—Thomas Dixon. 



HEN Laura was a little girl she 
lived at Everton with the Har¬ 


risons, her Grandmother Wat¬ 
son having died. Her father 


lived in Louisiana, and came to Everton 
plantation but once a month to see Laura. 
For days before his coming she was in a 
state of spiritual ecstasy. Her whole per¬ 
sonality vibrated life. The spirit of 
Browning’s words “All’s right with the 
world” was her spirit toward life. She 
was literally charged with power, virility, 
and radiant joy. 

When her father was to visit the plan¬ 
tation, she would put on a white dress 
with a red sash and little red slippers. 
She would seat herself in a big chair on 
the veranda where she could listen for the 
carriage wheels in the distance. If there 


129 




130 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


was the slightest noise she would fly into 
a rage, so determined was she to preserve 
the silence. 

“But you can see, Laura, dear,” said 
Mary Harrison, “the drive is so long and 
straight.” 

“Yes,” interrupted Laura, “but I must 
hear, too. Please, Cousin Mary, go in. 
Be quiet and tell the servants to be quiet. 
I will call them in time. Please, please, 
go away, Cousin Mary.” She said this so 
earnestly and pleadingly that Mary Har¬ 
rison would go into the house without a 
word, waiting for Laura to give the sig¬ 
nal. 

Laura would sit breathless with emo¬ 
tion, her hands clasped together, her little 
feet clasped too. At the appointed hour, 
if she did not hear the wheels in the dis¬ 
tance, she would grow moody, nervous, 
sad, filled with suspense. 

“I hope the hills are not too slippery, 
or perhaps the creek is up.” This she 
would think to herself, the thoughts 
dashing through her brain, and then call¬ 
ing out suddenly, “What time is it, Cousin 
Mary?” 





Jasmine 131 

“Just four o’clock, dear,” answered her 
cousin. 

“Well he should have been here be¬ 
fore,” said Laura—“at least five minutes 
ago. What has happened, do you think, 
Cousin Mary?—why do you think he is 
late?” 

“Nothing, dear,” answered her cousin. 
“He probably stopped to light a cigar, 
or something, or perhaps to have the 
driver gather some wild flowers for you 
—the jasmine that you love so well. It 
is only five minutes after four anyhow. 
And don’t get yourself into such a nerv¬ 
ous mood, Laura. It is not good for your 
health.” 

Laura did not hear a word that was 
said, but repeated, “What do you think 
has happened, Cousin Mary? It is hor¬ 
rible—I cannot stand it any longer. Dick 
is probably talking to him about cotton. 
I wish Dick would not talk so much.” 

“No, I think your father is getting the 
yellow jasmine for you, Laura. And 
then Dick is so fond of him. He loves to 
talk to him, too.” 

“Well,” said Laura quickly, “Papa 





132 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


does not care a damn about anybody’s 
love except mine.” 

“Laura, Laura,” said her cousin, “the 
idea of your using such a word. What 
would your father think? I am sur¬ 
prised, ashamed, Laura.” 

“Well, it is the only word that ex^ 
presses my meaning, Cousin Mary, 
Other words are so insipid. I like the 
word, you know, and so does Cousin 
Wade.” 

“Well, you must not use it anyhow.” 

“And I suppose that Papa would be 
shocked. You see I am so deep, Cousin 
Mary. People do not understand me.” 

“You mean intense, Laura. You must 
try to control yourself more, and your 
temper, too.” 

“It is not temper, Cousin Mary. 
Really it is not. Something so deep, I tell 
you. I have to say things, once in a while. 
Be quiet, Cousin Mary, listen—do you 
hear the wheels?” 

“I hear something, Laura, but I do not 
know what kind of wheels they are. They 
may be wagon wheels.” 





Jasmine 133 

“They are carriage wheels,” answered 
Laura. “He is coming, he is coming.” 

“But cannot you tell the difference, 
Cousin Mary, even in the distance? I 
can, but, of course, I can hear like 
the devil. It is because I am a Mar¬ 
tian.” 

“A what?” said her cousin. “And did 
you know what you said just then?” 

“Why no, Cousin Mary, what did I 
say?” 

“You used a very ugly word—you said 
‘the devil.’ ” 

“Oh, did I? Well, I meant ‘the devil,’ 
I suppose, but I should have said ‘dick¬ 
ens.’ I really do not know what I am 
saying now, Cousin Mary. And please 
do not think me impolite, but do go in 
the house again and do not come out any 
more.” 

Mary Harrison stood back of Laura’s 
chair. 

“Can you not smell the cigar?” said 
Laura eagerly. “Don’t you get the per¬ 
fume of it?” 

“Not yet,” answered Mary Harrison, 
“it is too far away.” 





134 ^.n Old-Fashioned Romance 

“Well, I can smell it. But, of course, 
I smell like the devil—I mean dickens. 
And you know that is because I am a 
Martian.” 

“I have not the remotest idea what you 
mean by being ‘a Martian.’ You must 
not read Du Maurier so much.” 

“Well, you know the Martians have a 
keener sense of things. They get cur¬ 
rents, waves.” 

“Well, I do not know about that, but I 
notice you never say ugly words when 
your father is here.” 

“Oh, no,—that is because I am happy. 
The currents are all right when he is 
here.” 

“I do not know what you mean by cur¬ 
rents. I know that you read too much 
psychological literature and you’re prob¬ 
ably very badly mixed up as a result.” 

“Yes, but look, Cousin Mary. Can you 
not see the carriage in the distance?” 

“No, dear, I only see a cloud of dust. 
I see a vehicle, but I cannot distinguish 
it.” 

“Well, then, if you cannot, Cousin 





Jasmine 135 

Mary, please go in the house. I really 
mean it. You upset me terribly.” 

Slowly her cousin walked away into 
the hall and Laura became silent. 

“What time is it?” she shouted again. 

“Ten minutes past four, Laura.” 

“Oh, I thought it was at least five 
o’clock.” 

She continued sitting in the large chair, 
rigid and tense, listening and straining 
her eyes to see. Suddenly she dashed 
down the steps into the yard, and was fly¬ 
ing toward the front gate, crying aloud, 
“He is coming, he is coming.” And then 
her small figure disappeared in a cloud 
of dust that her feet made in the hurry¬ 
ing. 

The carriage stopped abruptly. Laura 
fairly flew into her father’s arms, kissing 
his cheeks, his hair, his eyes. 

“Oh, Papa, Papa, I am so glad to see 
you,” and then, scanning his face, she 
said, “You look well.” This was the first 
thing she said always, as if to satisfy some 
terrible fear that had been lurking in 
her mind. “But I thought you would 





136 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


never come, Prince. What happened to 
you?” 

“Why, nothing, dear,” answered her 
father calmly. “It is only a quarter past 
four, and I stopped to have Dick get the 
yellow jasmine for you. I knew that you 
must have gathered all that grew in the 
garden by this time.” 

“And how are you, Laura?” he said, 
and then dreamily, while scanning her 
face, “You look well,” as though in re¬ 
sponse to some fear, and then, “Let me see 
you again. Yes, you do look quite well. 
You are well, I suppose.” 

“Oh, yes, Papa, quite well.” 

“And your Cousin Mary and Cousin 
Wade—how are they?” 

“Oh, I do not know,” answered Laura 
carelessly, as though to say, “Why speak 
of them—who cares about anything or 
anybody now?” 

“How do you like my dress and the red 
sash?” she said in a coquettish way. 

“Beautiful dear, and so becoming. 
Soon you will be old enough to wear red 
roses in your hair.” 

“Yes, Papa, but you know I do not 





Jasmine 13 7 

care very much for red. I only wear it 
because you like it.” 

And then she said again, “I am so glad, 
glad, glad, to see you!” 

“Here we are,” her father said as 
the carriage stopped slowly at the front 
door. 

And then the invariable question which 
she always asked, “How long will you 
stay, Papa, this time?” 

“Oh, several days, dear. But don’t 
think of that now. And while I speak to 
your cousins, take a peep in my bags, and 
see what I brought this time.” 

“How do you do, Cousin Mary?” he 
said solemnly. “And how are you, 
Cousin Wade?” This he said in rather 
an absent-minded way, but they under¬ 
stood it was because his joy was so keen 
at seeing Laura again. 

“Laura is looking well, Cousin Mary. 
I thank you for your care.” 

“And how is the hunting, Cousin 
Wade?” he added. 

“Very good, Prince, very good. Payne 
Green is coming over tomorrow to hunt 
with you. We thought you would like 





138 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


to be alone with us this evening—with 
Laura,” he added. 

“Yes, thank you, Cousin Wade. This 
is right.” 

Going to his room, he began to groom 
himself up a bit after the dusty ride. 
Laura burst into the room and said, “Oh, 
Papa, it is lovely—so golden and bright. 
Where did you find it—it is so beautiful 
a color.” 

“I got it in New Orleans for you, 
Laura. But I suppose you cannot wear 
it yet. Ask your Cousin Mary.” 

Taking the gift in her arms, she ran 
out to her cousin. “You are not old 
enough yet. It is a Spanish shawl for a 
young lady—not for a little girl like 
you,” said her cousin. 

“Well, I can look at it now,” said 
Laura. “Papa always brings such lovely 
things. But always Spanish things.” 

Then she ran back to her father and 
said, “I will keep it until I am older, and 
I will love looking at it.” 

And then, quite breathlessly, “I have 
practiced a lot since you were here. I can 
accompany you. I have learned the 





Jasmine 139 

waltzes that you like. But, oh, Papa, I 
have found such a wonderful thing. 
Something in a minor key. It is Oriental 
—Egyptian, I think. You come into the 
parlor and I will play it for you right 
now.” 

Taking him by the hand, she led him 
to the parlor. “Now, listen, Prince, and 
listen carefully. It is perfectly gorgeous, 
magnificent. It makes the waltzes seem 
insignificant.” 

Her father smiled as these intense and 
rather large words tumbled out of her 
young throat. 

“Now, picture yourself in Egypt 
again.” 

“But, I have never been there, dear.” 

“Well, then, just try to be there—try 
to get back.” Then she stopped abruptly 
and said, “Try to remember, Prince.” 

“Oh, what am I saying?” she added. 
“Well, anyhow, I thought of our being 
in Egypt so long that I feel we have been 
there. Mr. Payne Green says we were in 
some other life and I am sure he is right. 
He is always right.” 

And then she started a slow, solemn, 





140 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


theme in a minor key. She played it cor¬ 
rectly for a few moments, and then wan¬ 
dered off into a composition of her own. 
She ended it solemnly, and after a mo¬ 
ment of silence she said, “What do you 
think of it, Prince?” 

“It is beautiful, Laura. But the last of 
it—was that added on?” 

“Yes, I forgot the last of it, and just 
made up something to fit.” 

“Play it again,” said her father. 

She played again, but this time fal¬ 
tered. “I cannot remember now, Prince. 
It is gone. I can never remember my 
own composition, you know.” 

“Yes, dear, I understand, but it is too 
bad for it was a lovely thing. Too lovely 
to be forgotten.” 

“Yes, Prince,” said Laura, and then 
looked at him strangely. “Nothing love¬ 
ly should be forgotten.” 

And then, changing the subject 
abruptly, she said, “I have a confession 
to make to you. I want to tell you before 
iCousin Mary tells you. I believe I was 
once a Martian. Then I reincarnated 
upon this earth and went to Egypt and 





Jasmine 141 

then I came here. I cannot quite remem¬ 
ber, but Mr. Green’s word is right—it is 
reincarnation. I stole a book out of the 
library the other day about the East by 
Max Muller. Cousin Mary says it is not 
orthodox and took it away from me. Says 
it does not go with the Episcopal Church, 
and, therefore, is wrong. I hate the 
Episcopal Church, papa, it is so cold and 
narrow. And I want, also, to tell you the 
other part of my confession. I read two 
books of Bob Ingersoll, since you were 
here. And, oh, yes, the most important 
thing to tell you is that I sometimes say 
‘damn’ and more than that, I like to say 
it. I found the books of Ingersoll in your 
room, so I know they are all right. I 
liked them immensely. Don’t you like 
Bob Ingersoll, Papa? You understand, 
I know. Cousin Mary thinks he is ter¬ 
rible. But Cousin Wade,—well, I am 
not so sure about him. Perhaps he likes 
him too, because he says ‘damn’ also. Just 
like the rest of us. Is it not a shame, 
Papa, that ladies cannot curse? It is 
really such a help, is it not?” 

Her father tried to restrain his laugh- 





142 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


ter, but she held his eye and said, “I know 
when you smile it is all right, and that 
you will forgive me. This is a double 
confession, because I told Mr. Payne 
Green, and he understands perfectly.” 

“Payne Green is a genius,” said her 
father laughingly, “and so are you, 
Laura, and a strange genius, too.” 

“Oh, am I, Papa? I did not know 
that. I know that I am very good look¬ 
ing and that I have wonderful eyes, but 
I did not know that I was a genius. 
What is a genius, Papa?” 

“Well, dear, someone who has a very 
remarkable talent of some kind.” 

“Well, I haven’t any remarkable talent. 
I have a fearful time with the piano. 
The only talent I have is for reading 
grown-up books.” 

“Poor little love child,” he thought, 
“and so alone.” 

“Some day I will tell you what your 
genius is, Laura. It is best for you not 
to know now.” And then, smiling a slow, 
wistful smile, he said, “When you grow 
up, Laura, you will find no one like your¬ 
self. Even now, other little girls do not 





Jasmine 143 

understand you. They think you are 
haughty and unkind. They do not un¬ 
derstand that you are merely superior. 
But you must not let this hurt you. You 
must take it philosophically.” 

“Oh, I don’t care a bit what the little 
girls think about me, Papa. They bore 
me unmercifully. And little boys, too, 
as for that. And really, I don’t think I 
care very much about anybody, except 
you. You know how it is. By the way, 
I gathered some wild flowers for you. 
You brought me the yellow jasmine, but 
I got you something lovely too. Come 
along and I will show you. They are 
floating around in a big tub in the garden, 
and no one dares to touch them.” 

Going toward the flowers, her father 
was a bit startled for a moment when he 
saw some huge magnolia blossoms float¬ 
ing in the water. 

“Now, don’t you think that was rather 
nice of me?’ ’she said in a coquettish way. 

“It was very sweet of you, Laura. 
Whatever you do is sweet.” 

And, changing the subject abruptly, he 
said, “By the way, I got you the perfume 





144 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

you liked in New Orleans. The jasmine 
of Coty. It suits you best, I think. Run 
into the house and get it out of my bag. 
I will see you later, dear. I will just stay 
here a little while and look at the mag¬ 
nolia blossoms.” 

“All right, Prince,” she answered, “and 
tomorrow I am going on the hunt with 
you and that dear Mr. Payne Green. 
You know he understands me perfectly.” 





CHAPTER XV. 


ROSES. 


Now one and all, you Roses, 

Wake up, you lie too long! 

This very morning closes 
The Nightingale his song: 

Each from its olive chamber 
His babies every one 

This very morning clamber 
Into the shining sun. 

You Slug-a-beds and Simples, 

Why will you so delay! 

Dears, doff your olive wimples, 

And listen while you may. 

—Ralph Hodgson. 



1AURA dashed into the room 
playfully, “Some roses, ‘Mr. 
Nichol,’ ” she said mischiev¬ 
ously. Her arms were full of 
yellow roses. “They are for you,” she 
said. 

“Thank you dear, but why yellow 
roses? I like the red ones best.” 

“Yes, but I like the yellow ones. They 
are so bright, so warm.” 

145 




146 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

“So are red ones,” said her father. 

“But they are not the color of the 
sun,” said his daughter quickly. 

“Why did you name me Laura, Papa?” 
she said. “So solemn a name; it doesn’t 
suit me.” “Laura,” she said thought¬ 
fully—“No, that really is not my name.” 

“Just a fancy, dear,” said her father. 
“It is a lovely name.” 

She dashed out of the room, holding 
her head high. As she did, her father 
heard her say in a commanding way, 
“Saddle my horse, Dick.” The tone of 
her voice was not disagreeable, but in¬ 
tensely commanding. 

Laura’s mind was mature—her love of 
books, especially Oriental books, 
amounted to a passion. Her chief char¬ 
acteristics were pride and justice. She 
was proud to a degree, haughty and in¬ 
tolerant of middle class people, whom 
she had never met until she went to board¬ 
ing school, where there were a few 
nouveau riche girls, whom she instinc¬ 
tively disliked. She was quick to grasp 
any social distinction and was almost 
cruel in her exclusive and cold attitude 





Roses 147 

toward these girls. To servants, however, 
she was always kind and gentle, and they 
adored her. 

At school she wrote a number of essays 
on unusual subjects. She was particu¬ 
larly interested in religions, especially 
those of the Orient. She disliked ortho¬ 
doxy, and was called by her school-mates 
“Bob Ingersoll. ,, 

She talked as freely of Buddha, Con¬ 
fucius, Pythagoras, Swedenborg, the 
Greek Philosophers—Socrates, in partic¬ 
ular—and our American Philosopher, 
Emerson, as though they were her 
friends. She understood the personality 
of each one, as well as the teachings. 

She often failed in language and math¬ 
ematics and, therefore, did not graduate 
with honour. However, she was recog¬ 
nized as a brilliant mind and radiant 
personality. 

When she returned to the old planta¬ 
tion she was quite happy because she was 
with her father and his friends. 

Her cousins, Mary and Wade Harri¬ 
son, went to Maryland for a long visit, 
but Laura did not seem to care. 





148 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

“You do not miss your cousins, Laura, 
do you?” said her friend, Payne Green, 
“and they loved you so.” 

“No, I do not grieve for them. Of 
course, I miss them—quite naturally. I 
admire them both very much, but, frank¬ 
ly, Mr. Green, I do not care for any¬ 
one, in the deep sense, except my father. 
I worship him, you know. Other people 
do not exist really for me. They are like 
ghosts, unreal, intangible, and I seem to 
see them through a mist. Perhaps they 
are more like automatons to me. They 
do not inspire me with any form of love. 
But my father, Prince Nichol, even you, 
Mr. Green, cannot know how I feel about 
him. Of course, you will be shocked 
when I tell you that my father is my God. 
He represents everything to me. I feel 
no love for the Infinite. I, of course, feel 
respect, but love—not at all. I only know 
love for one individual—one thing. If 
he dies I shall die. My body may live 
on but my soul will go away. Of 
course, you know, Mr. Green, that the 
body can exist without the soul. The 
Orientals have known that for thousands 





Roses 149 

of years. We are just beginning to learn 
it here in this Occidental world of ours. 
Oh, Mr. Green, if Papa would only take 
me to Egypt or India or somewhere in 
the East—I long so to go, but he wants 
to stay here and I must stay with him.” 

“Quite naturally, my child. The old 
home has sweet memories for him of your 
beautiful mother.” 

“And Rosa Gordon,” added Laura 
quickly. 

When the sun was shining, Laura was 
brilliant, radiant, vibrating with life and 
intensity, but in the evening she was nega¬ 
tive. It was as though her real personal¬ 
ity had gone with the sun. She was often 
dreary and quiet to a degree. 

On cloudy days she was the same— 
quite depressed. This, because her nat¬ 
ural element was lacking. 

She had a passion for all shades of 
yellow, from the lightest yellow to the 
red and gold which is seen in the sun just 
as it is setting. Often she would wear 
large straw hats of yellow, which drooped 
with the roses which weighed it down. 





150 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“I am always happy in the sun,” she 
said to her father. “I belong to it. The 
golden waves of ether come down and en¬ 
circle me. They give me life and they 
tell me things in some strange language 
—that all of us should be happy and that 
the subconscious life is always happy 
and wise. It is only in the so-called con¬ 
scious life, which is distorted by human 
beings, that there is no joy.” 

“I am even happy when I am sad,” she 
continued, “for the sadness is so keen that 
it broadens my vision. I see beyond and 
know that beyond all is well, quite well, 
even if we do not quite understand here 
in the strife of things.” 

“You are a thinker, Laura,” said her 
father. “You talk like a philosopher.” 

Suddenly she turned to him eagerly 
and said, “Perhaps. But tell me some¬ 
thing of Rosa Gordon.” 

“I have described her to you, Laura. 
I have told you all that I can tell you.” 

“Yes, but tell me of her habits, her 
tastes, the little things about her. Please, 
Papa.” 

“Ask Mr. Green,” said her father, 





Roses 


151 


sternly. “He knew her well, too, and I 
never think of her now. Don’t you un¬ 
derstand that all my love went to your 
mother?” 

“All of it, Papa?” Laura asked eagerly. 

“Well, dear, all that kind of love. 
Now that your mother has gone, of 
course all my love is for you.” 

“Poor Rosa Gordon,” said Laura, with¬ 
out having appeared to hear what her 
father had said to her. 

“You don’t believe in spirits, Papa, I 
know, but I do. I believe that they are 
very near to us always and that sometimes 
they suffer terribly, especially when they 
are forgotten. My mother’s tomb is so 
beautiful—the flowers are always so fresh 
—and Rosa Gordon’s neglected. Only a 
few yellow jasmine growing there, and 
that is because they are wild and grow 
anyhow. Sometimes I go out and put 
some roses that I pick in the garden on 
her grave. I . . .” 

“Don’t speak of her again, Laura. Do 
you understand?” 

“Yes, Papa, I won’t, but I think of her 
all the time.” 




CHAPTER XVI. 


AMARYLLIS. 


The breeze, the breath of God is still, 
And the mist upon the hill 
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, 

Is a symbol and a token; 

How it hangs upon the trees, 

A mystery of mysteries! 

—Edgar Allan Poe. 



1 AURA said to her father at 
breakfast, “All the people who 
like me have names for me. 
Now, Mr. Green has a name, 
and he will not tell me the meaning. He 
says it is the name of a flower which is 
symbolic—amaryllis.” 

Her father answered solemnly, “I do 
not know, dear, but I will find out for 
you.” 

Laura sat unconsciously typifying this 
particular flower for at that moment she 
had summoned all the pride in her nature 
to preserve the dignity of the hour, for 
her father was leaving. 

When the carriage drove up to the 
152 



Amaryllis 


153 


door, the servant came into the dining 
room, announced the carriage and 
stopped by the bedroom to get Algernon 
Nichol’s bags. Mary Harrison followed 
him to the veranda. Laura came with 
him and stood by him twisting her hands 
and trying to smile. The smile was a 
desperate smile, a grim, determined one. 
Her eyes were unnaturally bright with 
excitement, but she continued to smile 
and asked irrelevant questions, just any¬ 
thing, to keep up the conversation, for 
she feared the silence, for it brought tears 
and she detested tears. 

Her father said “Good-bye” to his 
cousins and chatted a while, putting off 
his good-bye to her until the last mo¬ 
ment. Reluctantly, slowly, he walked 
toward Laura, who had gone toward the 
end of the veranda, picking the yellow 
jasmine that grew there. She picked the 
flowers aimlessly and still continued to 
smile. Her father walked toward her. 
She said nothing but when he kissed her 
cheek she could not restrain the tears, and 
then he kissed her brown curls and then 
always said the same words, “Good-bye, 





154 A n Old-Fashioned Romance 

Baby.” Then, after a long pause, “Good¬ 
bye.” He walked away without a tear, 
but with the saddest smile in the world. 
He said the words so intensely, so deeply, 
with an infinite love and tenderness. The 
expression in the word “Baby” was like 
one of the deep yet tender tones he drew 
from his violin. He walked solemnly 
away and got into the carriage which 
drew away swiftly. He never looked 
back or waved his hand to her. It seemed 
that he did not dare to look back. Laura 
stood lost in a revery until he was quite 
out of sight with the tears falling slowly 
upon her gown. 

Then, without a word, she walked 
away and always into the garden, where 
she sat motionless for hours. No one 
dared to go to her, or tried to comfort 
her, as she did not answer anyone. If 
she did, it was in an imperious, command¬ 
ing way. She would sit there for hours. 
In the early afternoon she would come 
slowly into the house and go up to her 
room. Sometimes she would read, but 
would never talk to anyone, and she 
would think, “Was there ever such a 





Amaryllis 155 

voice? Such a smile? Such a royal 
gentleman?” 

Wade Harrison said to his wife, “This 
grief should not be encouraged. We 
must stop it, too.” 

“But what can I do, Wade? She is so 
silent and determined. I can do nothing. 
Her grief at his departure every time is 
as though it were death—as though she 
had lost him forever. I pity her deeply. 
But I cannot speak of it to her. Don’t 
you notice that she never goes to anyone 
for comfort, and that she resents any in¬ 
trusion whatever? Her feeling seems to 
be past conventional minds.” 

“Yes,” answered her husband. “I have 
never known anything like her love. It 
is very tragic, I think.” 

When Algernon Nichol was away, 
Laura was indifferent to everything and 
everyone. If she studied at all, it was 
merely to please her father. She had no 
real interest in her studies—such studies 
as languages, mathematics, etc. She read 
Max Muller, Edwin Arnold and Pierre 
Loti and anything that she could get 
about the Orient. 





156 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“You must have some technical educa¬ 
tion,” said her Cousin Wade. “You must 
read less and study more.” 

“Yes, Cousin Wade,” she answered. 
“But I don’t like French, and such things. 
Why can’t I study Sanskrit? Mr. Green 
taught me a little, and I love it. But 
French—and English grammar—what a 
stupid thing. I really do not know yet 
the difference between a past participle 
and an adverb, and I think it is a reflec¬ 
tion upon one’s family to study grammar. 
A well-born person just knows good Eng¬ 
lish instinctively and through association. 
How could I speak bad English when I 
talk to you?” she added graciously. “It’s 
too bad that people have no originality— 
that all people do the same things and 
that people who like something original 
are considered peculiar. Mr. Green says 
that in the Orient girls do not go to col¬ 
lege. I think it is terrible that I should 
be made to get ready for college. I am 
sure it is not papa’s idea. It must be 
Cousin Mary’s. All these rules and this 
hard work. I do not like any hard work. 
Isn’t that perfectly natural, Cousin 





Amaryllis 157 

Wade? A girl is just supposed to be 
charming—you know how it is. Dress 
well and read a few books. That is 
enough. The dress really has more to do 
with it, I think, than anything else. Of 
course, if papa wishes it, I will do it, 
but not for anyone else; not even for Mr. 
Payne Green!” 

She walked away with a slight shrug 
of her shoulders and a disdainful look. 
After a while, she came back with an 
English grammar under her arm. 

“What is the matter, Laura? You look 
so unhappy.” 

“I am not unhappy, Cousin Wade. 
Much worse than that. I am bored— 
bored to death.” 

Slowly she walked away again into the 
garden. 

“Strange girl,” said Wade Harrison to 
his wife, “and quite inperious at times. 
You should have heard her last Sunday 
talking to Bishop Tomson about religion. 
As a matter of fact, he could not refute 
her statements, and it was perfectly ter¬ 
rific when she began quoting Buddha 
and Confucius, proving that the Christ 





158 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


had not said anything new at all, and 
then adding, ‘Of course, this isn’t origi¬ 
nal, Bishop. It is historical.’ Of course 
there was nothing to be said, and she 
finished her conversation by asking him 
if he admired Bob Ingersoll, and what a 
great soul he was. I held my breath and 
did not know whether she did it out of 
mischief or whether she was lost in her 
enthusiasm for Ingersoll. However, the 
Bishop was highly entertained and 
amused at her precocious mind. After¬ 
wards he said to me, ‘That girl is a great 
thinker, and so original.’ But tomorrow 
I am going to take all of the Ingersoll 
and the Oriental books and hide them 
away from her.” 

“She will find them, I am sure,” said 
his wife, “I have tried that often.” 

“Well, we will burn them up,” said 
her husband. 

“It is of no use. When she goes next 
month to live in Louisiana with her 
father, she will find a perfectly pagan 
library. There isn’t an orthodox book in 
the collection. Of course, she comes by 
this naturally, so it’s one of the things that 





Amaryllis 159 

cannot be helped. I can just pray for her. 
That is all that I can do. I only have one 
hold on her mentality, and that is that she 
really likes one of the Disciples very 
much. She admires St. Paul—‘merely 
because he was intellectual/ she says. 
She speaks quite indifferently and some¬ 
times disrespectfully of the others. She 
is really a problem and this is my only 
hope.” 





CHAPTER XVII. 


LOUISIANA. 

An ear that waits to catch 
A hand upon the latch; 

A step that hastens its sweet rest to win; 

A world of care without, 

A world of strife shut out, 

A world of love shut in. 

—Dora Greenwell. 

AURA, who was to have gone 
to Louisiana at the age of four¬ 
teen, was disappointed. She 
remained two years longer at 
Everton and then the time approached 
when she was to leave for her father’s 
plantation in Louisiana. 

The fact that she was leaving her old 
home did not seem to register in her con¬ 
sciousness at all. She insisted upon hav¬ 
ing her things packed days before she 
was to leave, and kept saying to her 
Cousin Mary, “It is wonderful that I am 
going—it is a dream come true.” She 
went about the house singing, laughing 
and sometimes doing a “little light fan- 

160 






Louisiana 


161 


tastic toe” as she called it. She would 
stand on one foot and swing around on 
it for a long time, and then suddenly put 
both her feet down in a funny little stamp 
and run away into the garden. She was 
a thing of radiant joy. 

“Just think, Cousin Mary,” she said, 
“I am going to be with Papa and Dick 
and the old Mammy who nursed my 
Papa. I am sure I shall adore her be¬ 
cause she knew him when he was a little 
boy. And Dick understands how I feel 
about trees. I mean these big trees at 
Everton.” 

When the day came for her to go away, 
she almost laughed when she said good¬ 
bye to her cousins. Waving them a gay 
farewell, she drove away down the long, 
straight drive. 

She was going to Natchez, where she 
was to catch the boat up the Mississippi. 
She took the boat at Natchez, and was 
delighted with its quaint style—it was a 
unique boat, such as is only seen on the 
Mississippi. It had a huge red wheel at 
the back which seemed to not only splash, 
but splash the muddy waves and, in spite 





162 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


of the muddy water and the uninteresting 
scenery that was passed in going up the 
Mississippi, Laura was delighted. There 
was something more than tropical, almost 
Oriental in it, and she was delighted with 
the captain on the boat. She told him 
that she was going to Troy plantation to 
live with her father. 

“You know him,” she said, “Mr. 
Nichol—Prince Nichol, rather.” 

“Yes, everyone knows him. He ships 
more cotton on these boats than any man 
in the state. And he is such a fine gentle¬ 
man, too. We are always happy to have 
him on board.” 

Without warning, Laura grabbed the 
captain and kissed him on both cheeks. 
“You are a perfectly wonderful man, and 
I knew it the minute I saw you. My 
father is going to meet me, you see, and 
we will drive to the plantation tonight. 
So wonderful to be happy, captain, and 
not to be afraid of things and people. 
You do not know how glad I am to go 
away from that old Mississippi place. I 
just hated it!” 

The captain altogether misunderstood 





Louisiana 


163 


her meaning and thought that she had 
been cruelly treated and said, “Where did 
you live? I thought the Mississippi plan¬ 
tations were very beautiful and the peo¬ 
ple so nice.” 

“Yes, of course, I don’t mean that. I 
don’t suppose you would understand that 
I did not like the trees there and that all 
the family belong to the Episcopal 
Church, and were frightful bores. 
Whenever I wanted to be understood, I, 
had to drive eight miles to Gayosa to 
visit Mr. Payne Green, who understands 
me perfectly. He has brains, you know.” 

“Oh, yes,” said the captain, “I know of 
Mr. Payne Green.” 

“But then I guess you know my cousins, 
the Wade Hampton Harrisons, too.” 

“Yes, everyone knows them.” 

This was a habit of the captain’s of say¬ 
ing this to people who got on board, but 
in this case he was telling the truth. 

The boat landed at St. Joseph, a small 
but aristocratic little town in Louisiana. 
Numerous people got on board, who no¬ 
ticed Laura. She was quite unconscious 
of them all. She was so absolutely inter- 





164 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

ested in things that she had no vanity at 
all. She did not know that she was being 
admired and she did not care either. At 
the next landing she was to get off. She 
stood on deck and waited for the bridge 
to be put down. It was really more of a 
plank than a bridge which reached from 
the boat to the levee. The negro men 
who were to carry off the freight waited 
while the passengers came on and off. In 
a few moments she got the perfume of a 
cigar and almost knocked a few people 
down in getting off the boat. 

“Better be careful,” said the captain., 
“The plank is narrow. You must come 
off with me, Miss Laura. You are under 
my care, you know.” 

“Yes, that is true, I must wait, but I 
know that my father is in that crowd. I 
smell the cigar.” 

“Well, I am sure he will be on board 
in just a moment,” said the captain in a 
commanding tone, because he saw that 
Laura was apt to rush off and probably 
get stuck in the mud as she landed on the 
levee. 

In a few moments her father came on 





Louisiana 


165 


board speaking graciously to a number of 
friends, introducing her and then taking; 
her off. They got into the carriage and 
drove away in the darkness. She could, 
see, however, the palmettos which grew 
by the road, and once in a while the lan¬ 
terns from the carriage threw a bright 
light on the black earth. 

“The earth is so black and rich here,” 
she said. “It is tropical, is it not? I love 
Louisiana, Papa,” she said. “No hills 
and tall trees. It has such a charming 
atmosphere, and there is something very 
kind about it. You know, Papa, I never 
told you that I was deathly afraid of 
those tall trees at Everton. There was 
something too magnificent about them, 
and they had definite personalities, too. 
Some of them were unkind, but here the 
trees are so nice and sweet. I see that all 
the trees are round and fat-looking. Of 
course, that means that they are good- 
natured, and Dick told me that many of 
them had nuts on them—that is, those 
that are tall at all. And the little trees 
have blossoms and red berries. You 
know, there was an awful loneliness about 





166 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


Everton. It was dignified and beaytiful^ 
but a little weird, I think. It frightened 
me. Oh, it is such a relief to be here, I 
am so, so glad. And your old nurse,— 
how is she? She will tell me all the 
things you did when you were a little 
boy.” 

“I thought Dick told you that,” said 
her father laughingly, “There really isn’t 
much to tell—I was just like other little 
boys. Do you see the lights now? They 
are the lights from the plantation. Soon 
we will be there.” 

On, on they drove. In a few moments 
the gate flew open softly, a negro servant 
said, “Good evenin’,” and in another mo¬ 
ment they were in the front of the door. 
An old negro woman came limping down 
the steps holding a lamp in her hands. 

Algernon Nichol said to the old negro 
woman, “Mandy, this is my daughter, 
Miss Laura.” 

“How-you-do, Baby,” she said, and 
held out her hand, while Laura put her 
arms around her and kissed her on both 
cheeks. 





Louisiana 


16 7 


“Oh, Aunt Mandy, I am so glad to seq 
you. I have heard so much about you.” 

“An’ I’m sure glad to see you, Baby. 
You mustn’t call me Aunt Mandy, honey. 
You mus’ call me Mammy, ’cause I goin’ 
to be your mammy, even if I is black. 
You don’ mind an old black thing like me 
bein’ your mammy? Come on in de 
house, honey—in the light, so I can see 
you. I jus’ been dyin’ to see you since you 
been born, but my rheumatism was so bad 
I’se scared to go to Missippi, an’ Dick 
told me he didn’t like Missippi anyhow. 
So I jus’ stayed on here, honey.” 

Walking up the steps with her arms 
about the old negro woman, they entered 
the house. There was a large fireplace 
in the hall, over which were a number of 
vases filled with autumn leaves and red 
berries. 

“Oh, how lovely,” said Laura. “It is 
so cozy and cheerful.” 

And then the old negro nurse said to 
Algernon Nichol, “Lawd, Marse Algy, 
she’s jus’ as pretty as a wax doll.” 

“Come on, honey, and let me look at 
you again. You sure is grand. And I 





168 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


cooked you some venison and sweet po¬ 
tatoes and made you some lemon pie and 
some chocolate cake, and some ice cream 
with nuts in it and Lawd, honey, you sure 
is pretty. I never dreamed you looked 
like a spirit. I don’t mean a ghost, but I 
means somethin’ bright and golden. Like 
de spirits I see in my sleep. An’ we are 
all going to be so happy heah! And your 
papa he is goin’ to be happy too!” 

“Well, is he not happy always?” said 
Laura plaintively. 

“Now, youse know, honey, he nebber 
was happy away from you. And he had 
to stay here on business and he wanted 
you with your cousins in Mississippi, and 
so it was awful hard for him. I often tol’ 
him that I could take jus’ as good care of 
you and you’d be happy here, but he 
wanted you to stay in Missippi, so there it 
is.” 

And then the old nurse went into the 
dining room, calling to Laura, “Come in 
here, honey. I’m goin’ to have supper 
ready in about five minutes.” 

The dining room was quite lovely. 
There were softly shaded lamps, many 





Louisiana 


169 


candles and another big fireplace, where 
the huge logs of wood burned brightly. 

“I’se been dec’rating all day for you, 
honey,” said the old nurse. “And after 
supper I’m goin’ to show you your room, 
but you got to eat your supper first and 
just sit right down, while I bring on the 
venison because you know I’m the boss 
’round here, and I got to take good care 
of a bright spirit like you what’s so rosy 
and warm. You ought to see your room 
now, honey, but you got to eat your veni¬ 
son first. Your papa he bought lots of 
rosy things, such pretty velvet curtains 
and some kind of rug all mixed up with 
colors, I don’t know what you call it, 
but it is imported, and lots of pretty 
pictures and a great big fireplace jus’ 
like this one.” 

After dinner Laura was taken to her 
room, which was really quite beautiful 
and just as the nurse had described it. 
Her father stood in the door smiling 
happily. 

“I am glad you like, it, dear—your 
new home. Perhaps you should have 
been here all along.” 




170 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

“Yes, I really should have been. This 
really seems like home.” 

“Tomorrow I have asked some friends 
over to meet you, and the next evening 
I am giving a dance for you. I engaged 
a band from Natchez, so you will have 
some good dance music, and a caterer 
and lots of champagne for the young 
men, and I know that all of them will 
fall in love with you. Soon you will be 
going to college—in about two weeks, 
I guess. But you will come home, 
Laura, for Christmas, of course, and, 
too, New Orleans is not very far away. 
I have arranged for you to go to New¬ 
comb College.” 

“Yes, Papa,” said Laura. “I’ll do 
whatever you say but, of course, I do 
not care about going to college par¬ 
ticularly.” 

And then, changing the subject, 
abruptly, “I know I am going to have a 
perfectly lovely time with your library, 
and I am old enough to read all of your 
books, I am sure.” 

In a few moments the nurse came in, 
and said, “You got to go to bed now, 





Louisiana 


171 


honey. It is very late and you’ll be up 
early in the mornin’. My room is right 
next to yours—the little room, you know. 
In case you want anythin’, jus’ call. I’ll 
leave the door open a crack and then 
there’s a big light from the fireplace, 
so I know you won’t be scared. And 
your papa is jus’ across the hall and I’se 
right here all the time. So, come along 
now, honey.” 

Laura went into the room again, and 
the old nurse began unpacking her bag. 
“Your trunks will be here tomorrow, but 
you’re certainly not going to wear those 
flimsy things tonight. You’ll catch a 
death of a cold.” 

So she went into the next room and 
brought out an old-fashioned night gown 
—a pink flannel gown—and insisted 
upon Laura’s putting it on. 

“I am sure it will sting me, Mammy. 
I never had on such a thing.” 

“Well, I’se nebber goin’ to let you 
catch your death. An’ only crazy peo¬ 
ple sleep in those evenin’ dresses. That’9 
all they is, so you jus’ put on this nice, 
warm, sensible gown, while I bring you 





172 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


some hot chocolate, and you’ll be asleep 
in a jiffy.” 

“But I don’t want any chocolate, 
Mammy. I’ve had so much supper.” 

“Doesn’t matter what you want, honey. 
You got to have somethin’ hot jus’ be¬ 
fore you go off to sleep. It will give 
you a nice dream.” 

“I am sure I will dream of venison 
and sweet potatoes. I never tasted any¬ 
thing so good.” 

Laura obeyed the old nurse, who 
slipped the strange gown over her head* 
and tucked her into bed, bustling off 
and talking to herself while she brought 
the chocolate. She came back and stood 
over the bed and said, “Now, drink this 
honey, cause you know I have to watch 
over you. You know I loves you and 
Gawd loves you too.” 

The next morning Laura was up be¬ 
fore her breakfast, and walked around 
the pretty yard where there were so 
many chrysanthemums and put them on 
the table where her father was waiting 
for her. After breakfast they took a 
little drive together. He said, “I want 





Louisiana 


173 


you to be happy, Laura and I want you 
to marry while you are young. In case 
of my death you would be so alone. 
And you are so discriminating. I am 
sure any man you would like would be 
a good man.” 

“Yes, Papa, but that is rather difficult, 
because I do not like young men, and 
I only like old men intellectually. I 
think I should make a terrible wife for 
any man.” 

“But I am sure in New Orleans you 
won’t feel that way, after you become 
acquainted there. You will have a 
lovely time. The week-ends you can 
spend with friends, and it won’t be all 
work, but a lot of play. This is true of 
all Southern girls. One must face life 
in a philosophical way, and I spent many 
sleepless nights in thinking of your 
future.” 

Her father glanced at her tenderly. 
“You must not be too haughty and in¬ 
different, you know, Laura. It is very 
discouraging to young men and unflat¬ 
tering, too. You must not let them know 
how smart you are. At that rate, you 




174 ^n Old-Fashioned Romance 

will have to talk very little, because 
whenever you talk, you say such clever 
things, you will bewilder the young cav¬ 
aliers. Just learn to listen a lot and be 
quiet if you can, and do not dare talk 
about Bob Ingersoll. You will mys¬ 
tify the young men and shock their 
mothers.” 

“Well, men should not be so vain, and 
women so conventional. It is really so 
uninteresting, is it not, Papa? So few 
people have any real individuality. I 
will try and be nice for your sake and, 
do whatever you say, but I do dread 
leaving you.” 

“Yes, I know, dear, but you will be 
back for Christmas and next summer 
I will take you wherever you say—per¬ 
haps to White Sulphur Springs, and 
the old Virginia resort where your 
mother visited.” 

“Well as long as you do not send me 
back to Everton, I do not care, Papa. 
I know it seems absurd to talk so much 
about the trees but you know the trees 
have strange personalities. You can tell 
all about a tree by its top. You can tell 





Louisiana 


175 

whether it is friendly or unfriendly. 
Some of them are merely cold and indif¬ 
ferent, others actively unpleasant and 
harmful. Some are not only malicious 
but malignant. They are like huge, 
poisonous monsters.” 

“Don’t you think you only imagine 
this, Laura?” 

“No, I don’t imagine anything. I 
only have a keener sense of things than 
most people. You just said yourself that 
I was smart, you know,” she said laugh¬ 
ingly, “and, you know, Papa, that Dick 
was afraid of those trees, too. I would 
hate to make a tree angry with me. It 
would hurt me in the end. Too, there 
are trees that group themselves together 
and fly at a terrific rate. I mean the 
spirit trees fly. You can only see the 
tops of them as they fly, and if they 
are good, they are a bright green, and if 
they are not good, they are very ugly, 
musty shades, queer browns, and things, 
shadowy and weird.” 

“I fear that Dick has talked to you 
too much about the trees. You must 
not listen to such superstition.” 




176 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“But it is not superstition, Papa. 
Everything has its double—its counter¬ 
part. The Orientals teach that, and 
these doubles, these spirit trees, make a 
lot of mischief at night when they group 
themselves together and fly at you. But 
in Louisiana the trees are more contented 
because the soil is richer and more nour¬ 
ishing, while in Mississippi the soil is 
sandy, so the trees become restless and 
unpleasant.” 

“Don’t you think you read too much 
Oriental literature, Laura? You have 
very strange ideas about things. For 
instance, these doubles and spirits you 
believe in—well, at any rate, don’t talk 
to other people as you do to me. They 
might think that you were eccentric.” 

“Naturally,” said Laura, “Limited 
minds are always superstitious of things 
they cannot understand. Things have to 
be proven. I often think of the witches 
that were burned, and dear, wonderful 
Joan of Arc and of Bruno and poor 
Copernicus.” 





CHAPTER XVIII. 

A TREMENDOUS PROBLEM. 


“There is a physical difference between the white 
and the black races which will forbid them living 
together on terms of political or social equality.” 

—Abraham Lincoln. 



AYNE GREEN came over to 
visit and to say good-bye to 
Laura, who was going to New 
Orleans to school. Too, he was 
going to have his annual deer hunt on 
Troy Plantation. The first evening he ar¬ 
rived he had a long talk with Algernon 
Nichol about the current news of the 
day, some of which brought before his 
mind the important and unique ques¬ 
tion of the negro—unique because the 
negro is a distinct type and one with tre¬ 
mendous extremes of temperament. 
Some of the negroes are loyal, faithful, 
loving, prophetic, possessing a tremen¬ 
dous amount of common sense, combined 
with the psychic faculty. Their loyalty 
was demonstrated by the faithful old 
177 









178 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


servants before and after the Civil War, 
and yet there is the vicious, dull, lazy, 
brutal and dishonest negro, who is not 
only condemned by white men, but negro 
men as well. In fact, the former type 
of negro is the first to condemn the 
latter. 

In the morning newspaper there had 
been a gruesome account of a young 
girl who had been assaulted by a negro 
man. Payne Green said to his friend, 
“It is diabolical. I mean not only the 
crime, but the punishment. But what 
can be done—here where there are so 
many negroes and comparatively few 
whites? It is a tremendous question, 
and one which would take a supernat¬ 
ural mind to decide. We have done our 
best to cope with this problem and have 
realized that it is only through this 
diabolical punishment that the com¬ 
munity is made safe for women.” 

People who speak so bitterly of lynch¬ 
ing and burning at the stake in the South 
do not think of the monstrous horror of 
the crime which causes them. They do 
not think of the woman or child who 





A Tremendous Problem 179 


is assaulted by the negro. No animal 
could be as diabolical—no words can 
portray the animal passion in the negro 
when it surprises and seizes upon its 
prey. 

In Thomas Dixon’s ‘The Birth of a 
Nation,” there is a scene where a young 
girl, a mere child, runs from the negro 
man who pursues her and jumps over a 
cliff, dashing her brains out rather than 
be caught by the negro fiend. 

It is a true and authentic case and, 
one of many. Thomas Dixon has fear¬ 
lessly and accurately portrayed the true 
condition of affairs in the South, not 
only in regard to the Civil War, but of 
the white man in relation with the negro 
after the war. 

Some negroes are not afraid of prison. 
They rather enjoy it. They sing and 
laugh and enjoy doing nothing, since 
they are instinctively lazy. The pros¬ 
pect of hanging does not frighten them 
sufficiently to induce them to control 
their passions. The only thing that they 
fear is torture! 

The Southerner has known this for 




180 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


years, and the Northerner soon finds it 
out when he goes to live among the 
negroes in the South. Of course, there 
are exceptions to all rules. There are 
some splendid, faithful negroes, but 
most of them have been spoiled through 
freedom. 

The negro is a coward by nature, but 
his passions are so strong and untamed 
that they dominate him for the time 
being in those cases which lead to lynch¬ 
ing and burning at the stake. 

Do the people who criticize this cus¬ 
tom in the South ever think of the 
agony of mind, both to the victim and 
to the family of the victim—the white 
girl whose life is ruined? 

In a well-known case in the South, a 
young girl of fourteen was assaulted by 
a negro, and was afterwards found in the 
woods bruised, tortured, both mentally 
and physically. She was found to be 
completely insane. Her own father 
found her, and the sight of her, and her 
death, which followed a few days after¬ 
wards, caused him to commit suicide. 
The mother lived on for years, but 





A Tremendous Problem 181 


ended her last days in a private sani¬ 
tarium. The brother of the girl went 
about in a dream. He was quite dazed 
by the horror of the thing—it was his 
only sister, and the sudden death of 
his father and the nervous condition of 
his mother completely ruined his life. 

Did the newspapers publish this side 
of the story? Did the people who so 
freely and ignorantly criticize know or 
care for this side of the case? I think 
not! 

Criticism, condemnation, so freely 
given, should be withheld because of 
the lack of knowledge in regard to the 
true status of such cases. 

On Saturday evenings it is a custom 
for the negroes in the South to receive 
their pay for the week. They imme¬ 
diately buy cheap whiskey and hundreds 
of these negroes walk and drive through 
the country singing, yelling, shouting— 
some good-naturedly, others with hatred 
for their masters, and many with only 
one thought in their minds—a white girl 
—and the only thing which prevents the 





182 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


realization of this desire is fear! Fear, 
of torture! 

The negro has to be ruled through 
his fear, his cowardice. This is a fact 
and is recognized by all people who 
know the true nature of the negro. 

Spiritually, mentally and physically 
the negro is inferior. His very body, 
with its thick skin, kinky hair, and thick, 
sensual lips, prove this to be true. 

Just as there are different types of 
animals so there are different types of 
human beings. This is recognized by 
the Northerner, and why is it that one 
rarely sees negro servants in North¬ 
ern homes? It is because they are not 
wanted—even as servants. They are 
not acceptable to the Northerner, even 
in the states which are filled with ne¬ 
groes, whereas in the South they are 
treated kindly as servants and the ex¬ 
ceptions, the good negroes, who are 
worth while, are recognized as good 
characters and encouraged and praised by 
the white people. They receive much 
love, those who are worthy to be loved, 
for the Southerner is quick to detect 





A Tremendous Problem 183 


goodness in any creature, and the first to 
be patient and just. 

Every American citizen should know 
the history of his country, and, as the 
South is part of America, it is only right 
that the true condition of affairs should 
be recognized and accepted. 

“You know, Mr. Green, I do not be¬ 
lieve in slavery, in spite of being a 
Southern man, and I do not believe in 
capital punishment, and certainly I do 
not believe in lynching. Yet the rea¬ 
son, the cause, which leads to this hid¬ 
eous thing, lynching, should be con¬ 
sidered. 

“You know that I am broad in my 
views, that I am a great admirer of 
Abraham Lincoln and that I often pre¬ 
fer the Republican Presidents to the 
Democratic. You well know, Mr. 
Green, that the hardest times we had 
in this part of the country were under 
a Democratic President. Certainly no 
fair-minded Southerner can deny this, 
and that the Republican Administration 
is often intelligent and just. Too, most 
of us are victims of circumstances, of 




184 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


environment. Did not most of us fight 
because it was for our country? We 
did not consider the cause. It was only 
that our country called us and needed 
us. And many of us were too young to 
have any definite ideas about the diffi¬ 
culty. Some of my best friends are 
Northern men, and I very much regret 
that a few bigoted and narrow-minded 
Southerners have caused us to be mis¬ 
understood as a whole. It is so in re¬ 
ligion as well. A few fanatics can ab¬ 
solutely offset the good and true in 
an ethical system, distort its meanings, 
and not only bring an undignified atmos¬ 
phere, but an utterly irregular one. But, 
of course, the fanatics cannot be elimi¬ 
nated ; and they make themselves so, 
conspicuous, while the real people are 
quiet and reserved. However, this is 
a question which cannot be decided by 
the North or South, or by any religious 
or political system. It will have to 
come through a slow and painful evolu¬ 
tion. That alone can change the situa¬ 
tion. For it is too complex and deep to 
be quickly eradicated.” 





A Tremendous Problem 185 


“You are right, Algernon, but we 
would never dare talk this way before 
your Cousin Wade. He is so prejudiced 
against everything in the North. Per¬ 
haps because he is older and has suf¬ 
fered so deeply through the war, while 
you were younger and had hope, which 
is the great strength and inspiration of 
life. You look forward, while he could 
only look back upon ashes.” 

Laura entered the room abruptly, 
bringing a message that someone wished 
to see her father. 

“I will talk to Mr. Green, Papa,” 
she said prettily. 

Payne Green interrupted with, “You 
mean that you will entertain me, Laura. 
You always do that, delightfully. What¬ 
ever you say interests me.” 

“Well, that is because we are kindred 
souls, Mr. Green—Eastern souls. And 
I think, Papa is too—a little, because 
after all this reading of Robert Inger- 
soll and Emerson is Eastern too. I 
think they were re-incarnations out of 
the East, these men, don’t you, Mr. 
Green? Now, we will have a lovely 





186 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


chat. I love to talk to you because you 
understand me perfectly!” 

“That is because I am subtle. It 
takes a subtle person to keep up with 
your precocious young mind.” 

“I am not young, Mr. Green. I am 
frightfully old. What they call in the 
East ‘an old soul,’ you know. I am go¬ 
ing to talk about myself, Mr. Green, to 
you. It doesn’t bore you, I know. And, 
too, to be frank, I have always found 
myself rather an interesting subject. You 
see I think of myself because I am so 
different from most people. It is not 
conceit. It is analysis and love of truth! 
You know I like to get at the bottom 
of everything, just as you do, especially 
things pertaining to the soul. Too, I 
am trying to develop myself into some¬ 
thing of a mystic. Notice that I say 
‘something,’ Mr. Green. It is much too 
difficult and self-sacrificing to be a real 
mystic. But I like to eradicate as 
many faults as possible, and I can only 
do this by facing them fairly and study¬ 
ing myself carefully. But this charac¬ 
teristic of mine might be considered 





A Tremendous Problem 187 


quite normal and right in the Orient, but 
wrong in the Occident. Now, the ques¬ 
tion is, ‘Who is right?’ You think I am 
perfectly divine, at times, and Cousin 
Mary thinks me quite awful! She calls 
me a pagan. Poor Cousin Mary, she is 
so sweet but unintellectual!” 

“The Orient, of course, Laura, is 
right,” said Payne Green. “They have 
given many thousands of years to the 
study of the soul, and Max Muller was 
right in saying ‘For wisdom, we must go 
to the East.’ ” 

“Yes, but Cousin Mary took my ‘Wis¬ 
dom of the East’ series away. I can 
never forgive her for that. I was really 
learning so much, Mr. Green. But 
in packing I slipped in a volume of 
Pythagoras, the Creed of Buddha, Em¬ 
erson’s Essays, and literally swore that 
I hadn’t the remotest idea what had 
become of them! It was quite unneces¬ 
sary, however, since I should have known 
Papa had a perfectly divine library. 
Scarcely an orthodox book in it! Think 
of it, Mr. Green. All heterodox—pa¬ 
gan, as Cousin Mary calls it, and ab- 





188 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


solutely pure! You don’t know what it 
means to me, Mr. Green, to find these 
books here, and I see now why I can¬ 
not think as Cousin Mary wishes me to 
think. Of course, it is because I have 
inherited my father’s taste. Sometimes 
I think I am like him in everything. 
But in speaking of myself, Mr. Green, 
the reason I am so detached is because 
of the selfishness I sense in most people. 
An intellectual difference I can toler¬ 
ate, but selfishness never. I regard it 
as a crime. Therefore, many people 
are criminals. Despite their fine mam 
ners, seductive ways, I can sense the 
inner man. 

“You understand, Mr. Green,” she 
said, “that I am not unkind, but I have 
a psychic gift which brings both joy 
and pain. So many swift and keen rev¬ 
elations come to me. There is no per¬ 
fume about selfish people, for every 
beautiful thought has a perfume. This 
has been known in the Orient for thou¬ 
sands of years. A soul may have many 
faults and still exist, and maintain its 
perfume, but selfishness kills the soul, 





A Tremendous Problem 189 


slowly but surely. And, Mr. Green,” 
she continued, “one of the worst forms 
of selfishness is the denial of mother¬ 
hood. A woman who is not willing to 
become a mother is an abnormal, hid¬ 
eous creature, and a detriment to the race. 
You understand me, Mr. Green, for you 
are one of the few people I know who 
has studied Eastern literature, and apro¬ 
pos of this, you will understand why 
I am exclusive. It is impossible to like 
everyone and although we are told to 
love one another that was, of course, 
to love within reason. Christ himself 
was intolerant of ugliness and he loathed 
hypocrisy, driving the Pharisees out of 
the temple Himself.” 

“And, Mr. Green,” she continued ear¬ 
nestly, “I may say this to you because 
you will understand and not think me 
eccentric. As to brotherly love, did you 
ever think that some of us are not broth¬ 
ers to the human family? For instance, 
a Martian incarnating upon the earth 
would not be a brother in the human 
race, and you know the ancient Occul¬ 
tists, who really knew everything and 




190 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


who conquered time and space visited, 
Mars and found that the Martians had 
no language, no spoken words. Their 
language was one of telepathy and they 
did not eat food, they absorbed nour¬ 
ishment through vibration! So you see 
the Martians are much more evolved and 
elegant than we, because after all talk 
is very crude, and although it is a 
social custom to eat in public, I person¬ 
ally have always considered it a most 
vulgar thing and I do admire the Mar¬ 
tians. Their whole system is different 
from ours.” 

And then she laughingly said, “You 
will understand, Mr. Green, when I 
tell you that so far as brotherly love is 
concerned, I don’t feel much of it. In 
fact I regard most human beings as 
my second cousins! Certainly not as 
brothers! 

“You know, Mr. Green, that I love 
the poor, the humble, the weak, but 
I do not love the ugly. It is a spiritual 
impossibility.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Green, “I understand 
you, dear child. But remember that you 





A Tremendous Problem 191 


have an Oriental mind. The Occidental 
mind would think such statements ec¬ 
centric, so do not speak to others so 
frankly. Sympathy, as you say, should 
be discriminating, as all things should 
be. It should be properly and intelli¬ 
gently directed.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Laura happily, 
“I know you understand, dear Mr. 
Green. And don’t you agree that most 
people who talk so much about loving 
everyone, this brotherly love business, 
either are insincere or frightfully anae¬ 
mic! No normal, full-blooded, intelli¬ 
gent person can love everyone. It isn’t 
possible. I know two women at pres¬ 
ent—one talks to me constantly of lov¬ 
ing everyone, and she is really at heart 
trying to impress me. The other talks 
the same way. She is more sincere, she 
means it, but I heard from a mutual 
friend, a doctor, that she is suffering 
from pernicious anaemia. Of course, 
I knew it before the doctor told me.” 





CHAPTER XIX. 


TROY. 



“To have faith is to create.” 

—Michael Fairless. 

AURA found Newcomb Col¬ 
lege quite delightful as well as 
instructive. Her week-ends 
were spent with different 
friends in New Orleans, and as most 
Southern girls went to informal dances, 
in spite of being too young to make her 
debut, she had a great deal of social life 
and was tremendously admired. Laura 
met many young men, but surprised them 
by finding some gracious excuse to leave 
them and go into the drawing room to 
talk to the father or mother of the young 
girl whom she was visiting. 

When time came for the Christmas 
holidays Laura was delighted at the 
thought of return to Troy Plantation. 
She took the steamer Natchez at New 
Orleans and went happily and gayly up 
the Mississippi River accompanied by 

192 






Troy 193 

some young friends who were to visit 
her. The days on the plantation were 
short and happy, and she reluctantly 
left again for New Orleans. Her father 
was so well and happy, the plantation 
so cheerful. It was all a beautiful dream 
to her. 

“I should have been here all along,” 
she said to the old nurse. “When I 
think of those weird trees at Everton, 
Cousin Mary’s orthodox views, Cousin 
Wade’s hatred of the North, the for¬ 
mality of the house as well, I agree 
with Dick that it looked like a huge 
white tomb. . . .” 

Upon her return to New Orleans the 
months passed swiftly, and she came to 
the plantation in June. Her father did 
not meet her at the Landing, and as 
she walked off the boat she was a little 
frightened when Dick said, “Your 
father couldn’t come out to meet you. 
He has a headache. Nothing serious^ 
Miss Laura.” 

“He is never ill, Dick. It must be 
more than a headache.” 





194 ^ 71 Old-Fashioned Romance 


“No, Miss Laura, he says it is a head¬ 
ache, and I’m sure it is.” 

They drove solemnly to Troy. Laura 
was in a state of terrible excitement. She 
asked a dozen questions about her father 
which Dick answered to the best of his 
ability. There was a stillness, an un¬ 
usual silence about the house as she en¬ 
tered it. The old Mammy came out to 
greet her, and before she could speak, 
Laura said, “I’m so unhappy, Mammy. 
I feel so strange, so frightened, so sad. 
What is it, Mammy?” 

“Why nothing, Baby, you are jes’ ner¬ 
vous. You come on into the house with 
me and I will show you. Nothing, 
honey. Your papa just got a headache. 
All gentlemen have a headache some¬ 
times, and jus’ cause you never seed your 
papa sick a little, ain’t no reason why 
he can’t get sick jus’ the same.” 

“But you look so different, Mammy,” 
she said, as she breathlessly walked into 
the house, while the Mammy said, 
“Ain’t you shamed, honey, to think that 
your old Mammy would tell you a 
story,—a blessed lamb like you!” 





Troy 


195 


Laura entered her father’s room 
abruptly. “Where is he? Papa, Papa!” 
she cried. 

“Yes, dear, I am coming. Just a min¬ 
ute.” 

Algernon Nichol entered from the 
other room, pale, thin, changed, terri¬ 
bly changed. 

Laura rushed up to him and said, 
“Why, Papa—Prince—what is it?” 

“Just a headache, dear. I will be all 
right now that you’ve come. Did not 
Mammy tell you that I have a head¬ 
ache?” 

“But headaches would not make you 
thin and pale. You are all fooling me 
and it isn’t right.” 

Her father tried to respond bravely, 
laughingly, but as he tried to laugh, she 
noticed that he caught hold of a chair 
near by. 

“I will sit down, I think, a minute. 
This headache is a frightful nuisance, 
and makes me a little dizzy, too.” 

As he sat down Laura for the first 
time in her life lost all control and threw 
herself at his feet with a sob. 





196 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Why, Laura,” he said, “I am sur¬ 
prised at you. You, to be frightened 
over a headache.” 

“Mandy,” he said, calling the old 
nurse, and then in a commanding tone, 
“Mandy, did you not tell Miss Laura 
that it was only a headache?” 

“Yes, of course, sir. She’s jus’ a fool¬ 
ish little lamb and I’se goin’ to take her 
right out of here. Why, honey, youse 
ought to be ashamed of yourself crying 
here. You know that I loves you and 
Gawd loves you too, but this is out¬ 
rageous, greeting your papa like this, 
when you ain’t seen him for so long. 
Good Lawd, you gets us all so sorrow¬ 
ful around here, and I’ve been decrating 
all day. Come right along with me 
and dry your tears. I got the nicest 
things in your room you ever seed.” 

Laura went out of the room slowly 
and when she got into the hall, she 
demonstrated another mood which no 
one had ever seen. Wheeling around 
suddenly she caught her Mammy by 
the shoulders, and said fiercely, “Why 
did you lie to me?” She said this in 





Troy 


197 


such a convincing way that the old 
nurse saw that to deceive her was im¬ 
possible. 

“Hush,” she said. “Talk low. Your 
papa told me, honey, and you know I 
have to do whatever he says. But it’s 
no headache, and I know I can’t fool 
you. It’s his heart, but don’t tell him, 
don’t tell him that I told you, for Gawd’s 
sake.” 

“Oh, my God, Mammy, what caused 
it? He always seemed to be so well 
and strong.” 

“Well, he’s had so many shocks you 
know in his life, and even a brave man 
like that can’t stand everything for¬ 
ever.” 

“Yes,” said Laura, “and, too, I know 
I had no business going away. All of 
these foolish ideas about the higher edu¬ 
cation for women seem so futile, such 
a sacrifice made for pride, perhaps van¬ 
ity, when being at home would be much 
more useful and fine.” 

“You’re right, honey. I don’t be¬ 
lieve in all this tom-foolishness about 
educatin’ good-lookin’ girls myself, but 





198 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

he’s awful proud of your brains and 
wanted to have them sharpened up a 
little bit. But don’t get so discouraged, 
honey. You can make him well. And, 
too, where is your religion? Where is 
your faith? Now, the difference be¬ 
tween you and me is this—while you are 
crying and taking on and worryin’ and 
hating higher education, I’se goin’ to 
pray so hard that anything I ask I will 
get; if, for no other reason, that I ax 
so much of the Angels that they get tired 
of listening to me. That’s the difference 
between the white people and the black. 
We black folks got a lot of faith, honey. 
You think we ignorant, but we wise, and 
anyhow we following the smartest man 
what ever lived and the nicest man, too. 
Some says he’s God and some says he 
ain’t, but the fact that he’s the nicest 
man that ever lived is something, and 
He’s the one that I prays to in the 
night-time and dawn, and gets up and 
starts breakfast, and then prays some 
more, and I certainly not goin’ to waste 
any good time, cryin’. And I been hear- 
in’ your papa tell Mr. Payne Green 





Troy 199 

that you had some traits like a man, 
so brave and strong. Now if that is 
the truth, you got to show them off 
right quick, and the first time I sees any 
tears, I ain’t goin’ feel sorry a bit. I jes 
goin’ bust out the house and go away 
and leave you here and then you have 
somethin’ to cry about, ’cause nobody 
can’t get along on this plantation with¬ 
out me. I’m the boss. I boss your paw, 
I bossed his maw before him, I boss 
Dick, an’ all the good-for-nothin’ nig¬ 
gers on this plantation, I boss the dogs, 
I boss that old Dago that goes up and 
down the road every mawning shouting 
so loud that he wakes us all up about 
nuthin’, and answer me this question 1 
ax you now—I ax you how you thinks 
you goin’ to excape? Honey, I’m goin’ 
to boss you so much that you don’t 
know what struck you. I’m goin’ to 
have you laffin’ and jiggin’. If you 
don’t know how to jig, you got to learn 
how. I’m goin’ to have this house so 
gay and bright that all your papa’s 
heart trouble goin’ to bust out the win¬ 
dow. Take wings and fly ’way. All 





200 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


trouble, any kind of trouble, got to 
go away. Just the brightness going to 
stay! And if you don’t help me, I sure 
ain’t goin’ to agree with your paw and 
Mr. Payne Green that you is brave. Of 
course, I feel sorry for you, honey, a 
little bit sorry, but I ain’t got much time 
for sympathy, now!” 

With this, the old nurse led Laura 
into her room, and said, “I’ll be back 
in a minute, honey. I got to fix your 
supper and make you eat. And promise 
me to be cheerful, like a nice little 
lamb.” 

“Surely, Mammy, I promise,” said 
Laura, trying to smile. She walked to 
the window and threw the heavy cur¬ 
tains aside. There was silence for a 
moment, and then a dog began to howl 
and a screech owl gave forth its un¬ 
earthly cry. The cry sounded like a 
death knell, or a warning in the night. 





CHAPTER XX. 


REALIZATION. 

ANON. 

Mother of pity, hear my prayer 
That in the endless round of birth 
No more may break my heart on earth, 

Nor by the windless waters of the Blest 
Weary of rest; 

That drifting, drifting, I abide not anywhere. 
Yet if by Karma’s law I must 
Resume this mantle of the dust, 

Grant me, I pray, 

One dewdrop from thy willow spray, 

And in the double lotus keep 
My hidden heart asleep. 

—From the Chinese. 


HE next morning the doctor 
came and made an attempt to 
deceive Laura about her 
father’s condition. Seeing that 
the attempt was futile, he took her into 
his confidence, telling her that she could 
be of great assistance in prolonging her 
father’s life. “It is the heart,” he said. 
“He must be kept in a very quiet and 
201 










202 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


tranquil mood, and cheerful, if possi¬ 
ble.” 

Laura did not answer. She was 
speechless. The shock of this realiza¬ 
tion swept over her like an avalanche. 
Her whole personality was submerged 
for a moment. After a long silence 
she said, “Doctor how long—how long; 
—how many years can he live if I—if 
I am cheerful and watch his every 
mood?” 

“Not years, my dear child,” replied 
the doctor. “It’s a question of months. 
Perhaps six months, if he has the proper 
care.” 

“Six months,” answered Laura, “six 
months. You cannot mean that, Doc¬ 
tor. I am dreaming. It is all a dream. 
I am sure it isn’t true. Why, only six 
months ago he was so well and happy.” 

“He looked well,” answered the doc¬ 
tor, “but his heart has been affected for 
years. Ever since the death of your 
mother. The shock was too much. In 
fact, his life has been a series of shocks. 
Tremendous emotional experiences, 
which in time left their mark. His 





Realization 203 

condition is very deceptive, however, 
and with this kind of heart trouble, he 
may look quite well and yet go out sud¬ 
denly.’’ 

“I understand,” said Laura, as she 
caught hold of the chair beside her. “I 
understand.” And then, without a tear 
she said, “I shall make the six months 
happy, and you must help me to deceive 
him in this way. Help me to make him 
think that he is getting better. In that 
way he can be happy for a little while. 
It can do no harm. His financial affairs 
are in good shape. Tell him each time 
that you see him that he is improving* 
and be clever about it, Doctor. This 
kind of deception is not wrong. It is 
kind, and in a way divine, for it is so 
helpful. You will do this, Doctor?” 

“Yes, Laura, I will,” said the doctor, 
solemnly. “You are a brave and wise 
girl and kind,” he added tenderly. 

“No, Doctor, none of those things. It 
is merely that I love, and that makes 
everything possible, you know.” 

As Laura spoke so earnestly, the doc¬ 
tor noticed two things which were sig- 





204 A n Old-Fashioned Romance 


nificant. She did not cry, and she caught 
the chair for support and not his arm. 
“This was symbolic,” he thought. “It 
means that she can stand alone.” 

“You have the qualities of a soldier, 
Laura. I am glad, for you need them 
now.” 

Laura did not answer him. She did 
not seem to hear these words. Still 
clutching the back of the chair she 
turned her head suddenly. Her face 
was flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright. 
There was no sign of tears. 

“Doctor,” she said dreamily, “you are 
right. It was the shock. He loved her 
best and he is lonely here, even with me. 
He longs for my mother; he is always 
calling for her in the low, deep tones 
of his violin and in his dreams.” 

“That is very natural, Laura,” said 
the Doctor. 

“Very natural,” answered Laura, 
“from the Occidental point of view. 
I understand what you mean, you would 
never understand if I told you what I 
mean. Who I am, for instance. Why 
I am here. Why I came back. The 





Realization 


205 


yellow roses, the sun . . . ! But I must 
go to him now. I must go, Doctor. 
Come back tomorrow and remember to 
tell him that he is better. You prom¬ 
ised, you know.” 

“Yes, Laura, I will. Good-bye for 
today, and be cheerful.” 

Holding out her hand to the doctor, 
Laura replied, “Good-bye, I shall be 
cheerful. I shall be gay.” And as the 
doctor walked away he wondered at 
this strong girl with the deep mystical 
eyes. “So strange,” he thought as he 
drove away. “I wonder what she meant 
by ‘coming back’—the yellow roses—the 
sun!” 

Laura went into the garden and gath¬ 
ered some flowers and walked back into 
the house, into her father’s room, gayly. 
“Some flowers, Prince,” she said. “The 
red roses you love, and good news, too. 
That doctor says you are better, lots 
better—that you only imagine now that 
you are very ill. You are really over 
the illness. It is just a question now 
of circulation and rest. That reminds 
me that I am going to give you an old- 





206 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


fashioned remedy; one that Mammy be¬ 
lieves in. I am sure it can do no harm, 
and it will please her so.” 

“Yes, dear, but what is that?” asked 
her father seriously. “I hope it doesn’t 
taste bad. I hate the doctor’s medicines, 
—so bitter and monotonous. But I will 
do whatever you say. You know that. 
I will try your medicine.” 

Touching the bell Laura summoned 
the old nurse. “Mammy,” she said, 
“bring in some very hot water and some 
of that mustard that you believe in so 
much. Get some towels and a foot 
tub.” 

“Foot tub,” said her father laughingly. 
“What on earth are you going to do 
to me?” 

And then the old nurse said, “Now, 
you know, Honey, that your Papa is 
not goin’ to let you give him a foot 
bath. That’s my job. I’m black and I 
knows it. I’se a servant, and I knows it. 
I’se been a slave, and I knows it, and 
it’s my place to give that bath, not 
yours. Whoever heard of a queen doing 
that?” 





Realization 207 

Laura wheeled on her suddenly and 
said, in her most commanding tone, 
“Mammy, do as I tell you, and do it 
quickly. Do you understand, Mammy?” 

The old nurse bustled out mumbling 
to herself, and in a few moments was 
back. Laura said to her father play¬ 
fully, “Put your foot out—I am going 
to take off your shoe.” The old Mammy 
interrupted with, “Now, for Gawd’s 
sake, Honey, that’s my place, not 
yours.” 

“Well, I am glad you didn’t say 
‘feet!’” said her father laughingly. “I 
think that is one of the ugliest, one of 
the most sordid words, in the English 
language. Having a foot is aesthetic, 
but having feet is abominable. So here 
is my foot.” This he said while hold¬ 
ing out his two very small feet. 

“You are funny, Papa. Just like a 
baby at times. I saw you sit on your 
feet the other day—I mean foot, if you 
like that better. You know you really 
looked like Buddha.” 

“Yes, I like to sit that way and 
dream.” 





208 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“You mean meditate. They call it 
meditation in the East. It is the wisdom 
of some former existence of yours 
brought over.” This she said while the 
Mammy poured the hot water, and her 
father pretended that it was too hot. 
“It is not too hot at all. You are simply 
one of your old selves today—a baby, 
you know. Is he not funny, Mammy?” 

“And did you ever see anything so 
white and helpless, so pitiful?” she 
added quietly and brushing a tear from 
her eye she leaned over the water to 
conceal her emotion, and then said in 
a strange voice, “Your veins are so blue, 
and one of them is a little swollen. Does 
it hurt you, darling?” 

“Oh, no, fiddlesticks, Laura. Of 
course, it doesn’t hurt.” Then he said, 
“Mandy, this girl of mine tries to make 
a baby out of me. But I think I feel 
better already, just the same.” 

Laura did not answer. Finally she 
said, “Now rest for an hour. Lie back 
in your chair and sleep. Dream and 
forget, if you can. Just rest and be 
happy.” 





Realization 209 

Several monotonous months passed, 
monotonous in the sense that Algernon 
Nichol was neither better nor worse. He 
remained in a negative state, sometimes 
going for a little drive, but most of the 
time confined to his room. Laura read 
him numerous books, told him marvel¬ 
ous and fantastic stories, played the 
piano, sang a little and was forever 
watching, waiting for some definite sign 
of improvement. But there was no 
change. The winter came on, Christ¬ 
mas Eve was near. For the first time 
in her life, she realized the irony of 
the words “Merry Christmas” with this 
horrible fear lurking in her mind. “I 
wish it would not come this year,” she 
thought. The words “Merry Christmas” 
were like hideous, sinister monsters that 
hissed these words into her brain. It 
will not be a “Merry Christmas.” 

When Christmas Eve arrived her 
father, however, seemed a little more 
listless than usual and there was a sad¬ 
ness about him, which was so deep that 
it was magnificent; it was infinite. 

When she entered his room, he said 





2 io An Old-Fashioned Romance 


to her, “Have old Mandy sit up tonight. 
The doctor says I am better, and I want 
to arrange some things for tomorrow 
myself. Tell her to come here.” 

“Yes, Papa, but I shall stay too, if 
you do not mind.” 

“I do mind, Laura, because the things 
I have gotten for you are a surprise. 
You can never guess what they are. \ 
mean the things in those boxes from 
New Orleans.” 

Laura left the room reluctantly, and 
sent the old negro mammy to her mas¬ 
ter. “Come in, Mandy,” he said, “and 
close the door. I have felt very weak 
in the last few hours. A strange weak¬ 
ness it is that has taken possession of 
me. My wrists are quite helpless, and 
I do not seem to see clearly and my own 
voice sounds very far away. I am not 
dizzy, and I have no pain, but it is a 
strange kind of weakness. Do you hear 
me, Mandy?” he said eagerly. 

“Yessir, I’se right here.” 

“Go and tell Dick to come here.” 

“Yessir,” said the old woman, as she 
left the room. 





Realization 211 


Dick entered the room with his hat 
in his hand, hurriedly, breathlessly. 
“Good evening Buddy, I mean Marse 
Algy. You sent for me, sir?” 

His master looked at him, but did not 
seem to see him, and the negro servant 
was frightened at the strange look in 
his eyes. “Come closer, Dick, I want 
to talk to you and I cannot see you very 
well from where you are.” And then 
he said rather strangely, “Can you hear 
me, Dick?” 

“Yessir, of course, sir.” 

“Well, Dick, I do not want Laura to 
know that I am worse,” and then, almost 
impersonally, he said, “that I am dying, 
but it has come over me all at once 
today. Not only the weakness but 
a premonition. Everything is seen 
through a mist, and my own voice sounds 
so very far away. Now, this is what I 
want done. I want Mandy to sit up 
here with me, and you are to stay near 
by in case she calls you for anything, 
and keep Miss Laura’s door shut—shut 
tight. I want her kept out of here to¬ 
night. Pretend that I am arranging 





212 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


some secret—a Christmas gift or some¬ 
thing that she is not to see until tomor¬ 
row—tomorrow morning, and by that 
time it will be all over, and Dick, when 
it is—can you hear me, Dick?—I say, 
when it is, I want you to telegraph for 
Mr. Harrison and Mr. Payne Green, 
and now I want you to start a man on 
a horse for the doctor.” 

“Yessir, but shouldn’t I telegraph for 
your cousin at once and Mr. Green?” 

“Of course not, Dick. Don’t you un¬ 
derstand that if you sent for them Laura 
would certainly know because my cou¬ 
sins are so old now, she would know 
that it meant the end? That would never 
do. Now, I want you to be clever and 
do just as I tell you. I want you to 
laugh a lot and pretend that we are ar¬ 
ranging a Christmas tree or anything in 
here. It must all seem very natural. 
Now, when you go out, you tell Mandy 
exactly what I have told you and come 
back soon. No, wait a minute. Get my 
violin. I will play a few variations,— 
something cheerful and pretty. Yes, 
that is it, that is the best way. That 





Realization 213 


will make her think that I am better. 
Give me the violin, Dick.” 

Dick, sobbing quietly and muttering 
under his breath, did not move. “What 
is that, Dick?—What did you say? Get 
the violin.” 

“Yessir, of course, sir. I was hunting 
for the violin.” 

“Well, it is right in front of you; 
there on the table. Give it to me and 
go and do as I told you.” 

Taking the violin Algernon Nichol 
tuned it up quickly and began playing 
a fragment of a waltz—a variation of 
some kind and ended with a Virginia 
reel, and he thought, “That is the thing 
to do, for I haven’t played those old- 
fashioned things for so long.” 

While he was playing Laura burst 
into the room joyously. “Oh, I heard 
you play. I haven’t heard you play 
those things for so long. I am so glad, 
glad. I knew you were better. Of 
course, you are.” 

“Of course I am,” said her father. 
“And it is Christmas Eve and we should 
all be very jolly. Now run and make 





214 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

me a mint julep. I am going to take a 
good drink, and then I am going to 
have those boxes brought in here and 
fix up these things myself. That is, if 
you will keep out of the room. If so, 
you will find a lovely surprise here in 
the morning.” 

The dim light in the room concealed 
the strange look in his eyes, and the 
determination to carry out his plan made 
the color come to his cheeks, and gave 
his eyes an unusual brightness, in spite 
of their strange expression. “You look 
like your old self, Papa. So well and 
handsome. A good color you have too. 
I will bring the drink,” and she threw 
a kiss over her shoulder as she ran out 
of the room. 

“Play some more, Prince. Play the 
Virginia Reel again. It is so quaint and 
beautiful. Remember how much Cousin 
Wade liked it.” 

Her father continued playing, while 
Laura ran into the hallway and said, 
“Mammy, listen to the violin. Is it 
not wonderful? The miracle has hap¬ 
pened. It always does when you have 





Realization 


215 


enough faith. You said so yourself! 
Stupid doctor, is he not? Well, give me 
the mint and the whiskey.” Then she 
said merrily, “Of course I knew that 
doctor was wrong. He is a very nice 
man, but a little stupid.” 

She went back into her father’s room. 
He was standing with his back to the 
mantel-piece. A bright fire burned in 
the hearth. He was still playing and 
did not stop, but smiled as Laura en¬ 
tered the room. “Standing up, Papa?” 
she said. “How wonderful. And here 
is your drink.” 

“Well, I am well now, Laura, and 
I am frightfully tired of that chair. 
You see the doctor was right. He told 
me I was improving, but he made a 
mistake, because I am quite well, you see. 
It is better than he expected,” and, tak¬ 
ing the drink, he looked at her happily 
and started to drink, and then stopped 
suddenly and said, as a strange mystical 
expression came into his eyes, one of 
remembrance and revelation, “Here is 
to you, dark-eyed . . . Egyptian. . . .” 

“Thanks, Prince,” said Laura. “You 




216 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


know how I love Egypt, don’t you? Per¬ 
haps we can go there after all, together. 
The change would do you good—or 
would you rather go to Spain? You like 
Spain best, of course. You love the 
waltzes, the red roses, the pretty fans.” 

“And pretty faces,” her father said 
laughingly. 

“Yes, that is true, but we shall go 
wherever you say.” 

“Run away now, and send in the tree 
and the boxes—the large ones.” 

And as she left the room again she 
ran into the old nurse, who said, “Your 
Papa certainly got well in a hurry, didn’t 
he? He sure looks handsome too, but 
you got to keep out of the room. Dems 
the orders. He’s fixin’ a great surprise 
for you and you got to keep out and 
I’m goin’ to help him. I be decoratin’ 
all night too. I like the decoratin’ best. 
Dick he do the hard work. Open the 
boxes, and I’ll do the decoratin’. Sure is 
lot of fun, Miss Laura. Nothing like 
Christmas time, you know, Honey. You 
better go in and say good-night.” 

“Yes, I will, Mammy. It will be the 





Realization 217 


first night I will have slept well for 
many a long night. It is so wonderful 
not to be afraid.” 

Walking into the room swiftly she 
went up to her father and said, “Good¬ 
night, Prince. I will see you in the 
morning.” 

Her father standing, like the soldier 
that he was, said without a trace of 
emotion, “Yes, good-night. I will see 
you in the morning.” 

The door closed softly and Algernon 
Nichol stood by the mantel-piece for 
some moments, and listened to Laura 
walk across the hall and close the door 
to her room. Then walking slowly to 
his chair he sat down and put his head 
in his hands. The door opened quietly, 
and the old mammy entered the room. 

“I’m here, sir,” she whispered, and 
then she stopped abruptly and said: 
“Miss Laura’s right. You just a baby. 
You got a notion in your head that you 
goin’ to die and you ain’t. Ought to be 
shamed to get such notions on Christ¬ 
mas Eve night. Don’t you feel better 
since you had de drink? You just 





218 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


imagine all dese things, and I tell you 
too, the Angels don’t want you, Honey. 
You too fond of huntin’ and huntin’ on 
Sunday. I been tellin’ you that all your 
life.” But there was no answer. “You 
knows I been tellin’ you that all your 
life,” she repeated. 

“Mandy,” he said, “it is no use. I 
know you mean well, but a thing like 
this has got to be faced squarely, prac¬ 
tically. I am very ill, and I know it. 
Bring me my pen and be quick. Now, 
get something for me to write on and 
hurry.” He took the pen and paper 
from the old servant’s hand and wrote: 

“Laura, forgive. It was the better 
way. Death is not only sad, but grue¬ 
some. And I want you to promise not 
to see me. I wish to be remembered as 
you last saw me.” As he tried to write 
more the pen fell from his hand. 
“Mandy,” he said, hurriedly, “see that 
Miss Laura gets this in the morning, 
but don’t let her come in here under 
any circumstances. Do you understand 
this? This is my wish, my command. 
The doctor will attend to everything. 





Realization 


219 


I want Miss Laura to sleep and I know 
what is best. You are to follow me to 
the letter—you understand this? Very 
soon I shall be going into a coma. But 
whatever happens, remember to be 
quiet, above all things, to be quiet. Not 
only for her sake, but for the sake of 
decency and dignity.” 

“Yessir,” said the nurse, while she 
noticed the whiteness which came into 
his face suddenly, and rushed into the 
next room for medicines. 

“You need not get the medicines, 
Mandy. They won’t do any good now, 
and, by the way. I don’t want to be put 
to bed. I want to die in my chair. Sit¬ 
ting up. Leave me here and prom¬ 
ise not to cry out. This must be as I 
saj^.” 

Dick entered the door solemnly. The 
two negro servants stood speechless. 
Their master sat calmly in his chair. 
There was a long silence. The old 
woman was wringing her hands and 
Dick muttered to himself again saying, 
“I wish the doctor would come.” 

And then the door opened suddenly, 




220 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


but quietly. Laura walked into the 
room. “Your father’s going to sleep, 
Honey, and you were told not to come 
back,” said the old Mammy. But Laura 
was walking not in her sleep, but in 
some strange psychic state. Waving the 
servants aside imperiously she said, 
“There is something wrong—I felt it.” 
And going a little closer she stopped 
suddenly and stood motionless. With¬ 
out a moan or a tear she stood there for 
a moment and then her father looked up 
quietly. He looked straight at her and 
lifting up his arms said clearly, sol¬ 
emnly, “Rosa! Rosa!” . . . 

Laura did not move. She stood petri¬ 
fied with grief. In another moment the 
soul of Algernon Nichol was gone. 





CHAPTER XXI. 


MEMORIES. 

“A FRIEND.” 

All that he came to give, 

He gave and went again: 

I have seen one man live, 

I have seen one man reign, 

With all the graces in his train. 

As one of us, he wrought 
Things of the common hour: 

Whence was the charmed soul brought, 
That gave each act such power; 

The nature beauty of a flower? 

Magnificence and grace, 

Excellent courtesy: 

A brightness on the face, 

Airs of high memory: 

Whence came all these, to such as he? 

Like young Shakespearean kings, 

He won the adoring throng: 

And as Apollo sings, 

He triumphed with a song: 

Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. 

With a light word, he took 
The hearts of men in thrall: 


221 


222 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


And, with a golden look 
Welcomed them, at his call 
Giving their love, their strength, their all. 

No man less proud than he, 

Nor cared for homage less: 

Only, he could not be 
Far off from happiness: 

Nature was bound to his success. 

Weary, the cares, the jars, 

The lets, of every day: 

But the heavens filled with stars, 

Chanced he upon the way: 

And where he stayed, all joy would stay. 

Now when the night draws down, 

When the austere stars burn; 

Roaming the vast live town, 

My thoughts and memories yearn 
Toward him, who never will return. 

Yet have I seen him live, 

And owned my friend, a king: 

All that he came to give, 

He gave and I, who sing 
His praise, bring all I have to bring. 

—Lionel Johnson. 

AURA remained in an apa¬ 
thetic state for days. Payne 
Green and the Harrisons were 
with her, but Laura did not 
seem to be conscious of their presence. 








Memories 223 


She would sit for hours gazing out of the 
window into space. Nothing seemed to 
matter. The old negro Mammy tried 
to comfort her and the good doctor, but 
no one could understand fully. Finally 
one day she said to Mr. Green, “I must 
go away from here. I must go some¬ 
where and study. I must get into a 
different atmosphere. These constant re¬ 
minders are killing me, they are too 
poignant.” 

“Yes, but you will be alone.” 

“Yes, but I am alone here, every¬ 
where. People are like automatons to. 
me. Their lips move mechanically and 
say meaningless things to me. You, 
Mr. Green, understand better than any¬ 
one else. But not quite—not even you 
can know.” 

“Yes,” said her friend, “But you know 
that your father wanted you to marry. 
There are so many young men devoted 
to you. You will not even see them.” 

“None of them interest me, Mr. 
Green. I am quite alien to them. I 
have only one idea, and that is to get 
away, especially from Mammy and Dick 





224 dn Old-Fashioned Romance 

and his horse Dexter. It is too terrible 
to see them each day and not to see 
him. There is a shadow over the plan¬ 
tation. All of the negroes feel it. The 
overseer, the clerk—nothing is the same. 
They all miss him. Of course, it is 
beautiful that they loved him so, but 
makes it too difficult for me. I cannot 
forget for a moment even when I try. 
I am going away, Mr. Green. There 
is no use trying to stop me. The Har¬ 
risons are old, of course, but they have 
each other, and you, if I cannot endure 
the loneliness in New York City, where 
I mean to study, I shall go to Egypt.” 

“Yes, dear, but you cannot go to 
Egypt alone.” 

“Oh, yes, I can, Mr. Green. Girls 
are not so chaperoned as they used to 
be, and I am alone wherever I go. Don’t 
you understand this?’ And then a 
strange silence crept over Laura. She 
did not speak again. 

Mr. Green left the room, and as he did 
so, he saw Mary Harrison sitting pa¬ 
thetically in a large chair in the parlor. 
“I think that Laura is quite determined 





Memories 


225 


to go away, Mrs. Harrison. I would not 
try to stop her if I were you. It is 
really best, and I think the study will do 
her good, and perhaps the trip later on. 
Something must be done. I fear not only 
for her health, but for her mind. I 
have never seen such deep grief.” 

“If she goes, she will never come 
back,” said Mrs. Harrison. “At least, 
I shall never see her again, and I shall 
be the next to go. Perhaps it is better 
so.” 

Laura went to Columbia University 
for a special course, and tried to forget, 
but in vain. Her heart was not in her 
work. Life was merely a philosophy. 

One day as she sat in her room, list¬ 
lessly turning over the pages of a book, 
some letters were brought to her, one of 
which was from Payne Green. The let¬ 
ter read: 

“My dear Laura: 

I have never wished to intrude upon 
you with advice of a personal nature, 
but I will not see you probably for 
months, as I am contemplating a hunt- 




226 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


ing trip, and if the boll weevil works the 
damage to this crop now apprehended, 
I will not be able to come to you in 
New York. So won’t you let my high 
regard for you and my interest in your 
welfare excuse the offering of un¬ 
solicited advice? 

Your life is tragic beyond expression. 
Born of gentle, cultured parents, on 
your mother’s death you became the 
sole solace and comfort of your gifted 
father, whom you worshiped, and as 
his comrade, you grew up petted and 
spoiled in an atmosphere of love, refine¬ 
ment and singular purity, possessing a 
clear, analytical mind, not common in 
men, most uncommon in women, a lover 
of truth for truth’s sake, a nature 
sincere, loyal and transparently pure 
with an intellect almost unfeminine in 
its cold clarity; an artistic loving, sen¬ 
suous temperament. Then, endowed 
with a hundred charms in face and 
form, you seemed one favored by the 
Gods, and created only for sunshine, 
happiness and love. 

And as I remember you in your young 
girlhood—as we drew around the fire in 
your old home in Mississippi, our voices 





Memories 227 

grew tender and our eyes moist as we 
talked of the beauty of your young 
mother, the magnetism of your princely 
father, and you, the winsome, loving 
girl who would some day doubtless be 
alone and unprotected; the sorrows and 
tragedies which you must face, for we 
knew that your father was not in good 
health, though you did not know, and 
as we talked, I could close my eyes and 
hear the voices of the gentle, high-born 
women and chivalrous men of this old 
sweet dead South, and knew that you 
could not remain among them, but that 
destiny would take you to alien people 
and alien countries. 

Stunned with grief at the loss of your 
father, you have not the remotest 
chance for happiness unless you will 
realize now that you cannot expect to 
find a man just like your father, for 
such men do not exist any more. They 
belong to the past—a beautiful past, 
and you cannot expect to know such 
men in this modern, materialistic age. 

Marriage is an incident in the lives 
of many women, but to you right mating 
is essential. This I realize, and I 
realize how difficult it is for you, with 





228 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


your penetrating, analytical mind, to 
love and admire the men whom you are 
apt to meet. At the same time, try to 
be philosophical, and realize that com¬ 
panionship means something, and that 
if you can admire a man, this means 
almost everything. You are at present 
spiritually bruised. You stand almost 
at the threshold of life. What will you 
do with it? 

While to a man of my age the heart 
of a young woman is a closed book, yet 
I know that you have known no 
romantic happiness; you have known no 
love; that your heart has never been 
awakened;—but I am sure that to him 
who can say the magic words, which 
will unlock it, you can give infinite 
happiness. 

My prayer is that he may deserve it. 
You are alone in life without a pro¬ 
tector, when you most need one, and 
from your position, exposed to tempta¬ 
tion, slander, calumny. You cannot 
fight the battle alone. I have no appre¬ 
hensions as to your strength and I 
believe that your purity is such that you 
can walk in pitch and not be defiled. 
But you are defenseless against the 





Memories 229 

harsh judgment of the world you live 
in. Bitter as this is, it is true that 
your purity of life will not serve to keep 
your name unspotted. The very men 
whose advances you scorn will avenge 
themselves by doubting your virtue! 
Envious tongues will stab you and your 
sense of conscious rectitude will not 
keep the poison from rankling. You 
are entitled to a pure life and to an 
unsmirched name. 

I know your loyalty and love of truth 
is such that to save yourself you would 
not pretend what you do not feel, but if 
some man whom you esteem and 
respect, failing to win your love, and yet 
offers you his name, knowing that you 
do not love him, I would have you weigh 
well the question before refusing. I 
hope that the man may come upon 
whom you can lavish the treasures of 
heart and mind which have been so 
cruelly repressed. 

I shall not trespass again, but your 
helplessness has appealed to me pro¬ 
foundly, and to atone for the bitter 
unhappiness of the past, the future must 
hold some happiness in store for you. 
And I would not have you forfeit it by 





230 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


any mistake on your part. And I would 
that I could help you find it. 

With kindest wishes for your wel¬ 
fare, believe me 

Always your friend, 

Payne Green.” 





CHAPTER XXII. 

THE CALL OF THE EAST. 

“The things I seek are beyond money and beyond 
price. The wind and stars are not for sale. The 
Gods ask no fees for worship. 

—Algernon Blackwood.” 

AURA wrote and thanked her 
friend for his letter, but told 
him that she could not follow 
his advice, and that she was 
leaving for the Orient in a few weeks. 

The next week, to her great surprise, 
Payne Green was announced. He was 
quite old, but not feeble, and with an 
alert step and bright eye, he walked into 
her sitting room. Holding out both his 
hands, he took her hands in his and 
looked earnestly into her eyes. “I had 
to see you again, Laura. We will never 
meet again, dear child. I wanted to see 
you once more.” 

Still holding her hands and looking 
into her eyes, he said, “I shall tell you 
something that no one has ever known— 
231 








232 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

not even your princely father. I loved 
Rosa Gordon. She regarded me merely 
a friend, but I worshiped her. She 
was my queen, my dream queen. I loved 
her imperious, royal ways—I loved her 
great dark eyes—her brilliant wit—her 
classic mind—I, too, love the yellow 
roses—the sun I All my days have been 
dream days. All through long, silent 
years the love, the longing, the unfath¬ 
omable depths, despair, the battle be¬ 
tween love and chivalry—for I too 
loved your father. He was my friend, 
my comrade, and I thank God that he 
never knew. I came here to pay hom¬ 
age, to say adieu, and to bring you my 
blessing, to leave you in the keeping of 
Allah, her God, your God, my God, for 
we, Laura, are Eastern souls, a group 
soul perhaps, reincarnated in a strange 
country. I love the South, of course, 
with a deep, passionate love; I love its 
gallant men, its beautiful women, the 
perfume, the grace. But more than that 
I love Egypt. I too would like to go 
home. In the South we stand among 
ruins. Once it was Egypt, Spain and 





The Call of the East 


233 


England; the Government, the slaves, 
were in some degree Egyptian; the color, 
the music, was of Spain; the blood was 
of England;—a superb combination, 
subtle and unique. To return to the 
South would sadden you, to remain here 
in New York would be futile. You 
cannot be happy here—you do not be¬ 
long. You are right to go where you 
can speak of reincarnation, of destiny, 
of telepathy, of prophecy, freely. There 
you may speak of such things without 
being considered eccentric. The East 
is not the West, and I fear never can 
be. There invisible things are as po¬ 
tent as visible. For thousands of years 
wisdom has been used. Life in the East 
is a science. It is an art as well. We 
are only amateurs here, wildly grasping 
for material things, at least many are. 
For that reason I am glad that you are 
going away, even if you go alone, for 
in spite of your great loss you will 
find happiness, you will find companion¬ 
ship there. My spirit will be with you 
always. Through the law of telepathy 




234 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

you will receive my thoughts. There 
can be no separation between us. 

“Poor wounded child of the East! 
The Gods will protect you. The invisi¬ 
ble presences will guide you always!” 

As Laura stood listening to her friend, 
the sun fell upon her strong young face. 
She was silent. She seemed lost in some 
sudden realization. “Poor Mr. Green,” 
she said, still gazing out of the window, 
as though she hated to look upon his 
face, to see the agony there, and still 
without looking she said, “Yours has 
been the saddest life. The rest of us 
have known death, but we have known 
the realization of love, and you, so pa¬ 
tient, so kind, so brave, and always alone, 
cherishing your secret all through the 
long weary years, yet only giving out 
happiness and cheer to others. Your 
life has been a human epic, a classic 
indeed—a beautiful and realized ideal. 
Your courage is unique, your sacrifice 
divine.” 

And then again she said, without look¬ 
ing at him, “My poor Mr. Green. All 
of those days you were the gayest of 





The Call of the East 


235 


us all. No one ever guessed. How well 
I remember your brilliant repartee, the 
delightful toasts, the witty conversation 
at the dinner table, at Everton, trying to 
make Cousin Wade forget the war, and 
afterwards, my father, his terrible loss, 
to smile when the heart was breaking, 
all through the long, long years. I am 
glad you told me, dear Mr. Green, for 
it will make me more patient in bearing 
my sorrow. It will serve as a model 
of strength, a noble purpose and sub¬ 
lime unselfishness. How humble, how 
insignificant I feel now, how weak. But 
I shall try to be strong now and learn to 
smile, while the heart breaks, and more 
than that, I must do something worth 
while as a monument to him. Sometimes 
I have a strange dream of my father. I 
see him walking upon the clouds in some 
majestic glory. Great spirit trees stand 
magnificently in the sky, and golden 
birds fly calmly toward the sun. It is 
such a mystical dream and superb. I 
think the Gods love him, Mr. Green.” 

“Yes, Laura, and the Gods claim their 
own.” 





236 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“But then, too, Mr. Green, of late I 
have had such frightful dreams, or 
visions, they are, rather, and it is be¬ 
cause of my loyalty and continuous 
thought of my father. I will tell you 
one of the dreams, Mr. Green. 

“It was in the deep of night, Mr. 
Green, and I found myself in a hos¬ 
pital. There was a woman dressed in 
white sitting at a desk, on which there 
was a green light. 

“May I go upstairs?” I asked. “I 
want to see my father.” 

“Yes,” she said, “he is just alive.” 

Without answering, I went upstairs, 
hurriedly. I found myself in a long, 
cold corridor; then a door opened sud¬ 
denly, and I was in a small room—a 
typical hospital room, with a plain white 
bed in it. 

On the bed I saw the figure of a 
man—thin and with an olive complex¬ 
ion. “I am in the wrong room,” I said 
to myself—“my father is so handsome 
and fair. This man is not.” But, as I 
looked again, I saw—to my horror— 
that it was my Father. Going hastily to 





The Call of the East 237 

the side of the bed I saw that his eyes 
were closed, yet he was not asleep. His 
hands were folded helplessly across his 
breast. He did not speak, as I touched 
his hand. 

“Papa,” I said. “Papa, it is your lit¬ 
tle girl—your own baby. Don’t you 
know, don’t you hear me?” 

After a long silence, he said, quietly, 
solemnly, “I cannot remember ” 

“But,” I said, “you know my voice— 
my touch—you know your own—look at 
me, darling—look at me!” 

Opening his great beautiful eyes, he 
looked at me searchingly, deeply, and 
then closed his eyes wearily, saying 
again, “/ cannot remember!” 

Without saying more I walked out of 
the room, and down the corridor—down 
the stairs, running for help. As I 
passed the office the woman in white 
said to me, “Where are you going?” 

I answered, “For help; some one must 
help me to help him. My father is very 
ill.” 

“We are doing all we can,” she 
added, professionally. “He has the 





238 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


best care. This is the place for him, 
now.” 

“What is this place?” I asked. “I 
must take him away. I must take him 
home.” 

“No,” she said, “he must remain here 
until he is better.” 

“ ‘What is this place?’ I asked again. 
“It seems uncanny—cold—weird. I 
don’t like it,” I added, hurriedly. 

“It is a sanitarium,” she replied 
calmly—“a Spiritual Hospital for those 
who have suffered too much. It is for 
the insane.” 

“Insane!” I shouted. “My Father 
was the most sane man I ever knew. 
How dare you bring him here?” 

“You do not understand,” she an¬ 
swered calmly. “It is worry, great 
agony of mind, which has caused this 
late development. You have caused it,” 
she said, ‘you!’ 

“I? I, who loved him, worshiped 
him, and who never caused him a mo¬ 
ment’s sorrow in his life? You are un¬ 
just and impertinent. You are unkind 
to speak in this way.” 




The Gall of the East 239 

“You do not understand. Listen, and 
I will tell you. All of your sorrows he 
has known, felt and endured—endured 
them courageously, philosophically, until 
one day you went up to a life-sized por¬ 
trait of him and put your head—your 
cheek against his heart, and said, ‘Why 
don’t you help me? I cannot suffer any 
more—help me! My sorrow is too great 
—too horrible!’ Your tears coursed 
down your cheek and fell upon his heart. 
Then you kissed his eyes, his brow, and 
said, ‘You are so strong—so kind—cer¬ 
tainly there is no death, and Heaven is 
more powerful than Earth; help me. I 
cannot stand any more.’ Do you remem¬ 
ber this day?” she asked, quietly. 

“Yes,” I said. 

“From that day,” she continued sol¬ 
emnly, “he has never been the same. At 
first he was wild with grief, trying al¬ 
ways to help you, but Destiny was too 
strong; he could do nothing for you. He 
could not help you, but, in trying, he 
got himself, earth-bound.” 

“Earth-bound!” I cried. 

“Yes,” she answered. “He was one 





240 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


of the most glorious spirits in the King¬ 
dom. He was magnificent—like a God 
walking in the sky—and now—what is 
he? A helpless earth-bound spirit; he 
is on the Astral Plane; that is why he 
looks so ill and insignificant!” 

Rushing away from this woman, with¬ 
out a word, I ran out of the house and 
at the gate, I saw three sisters of Charity. 
Going up to them, I said, “That woman, 
that terrible woman, in white, there, in 
that house tells me terrible things. I 
don’t believe them. You will be truth¬ 
ful and kind. Tell me, is it true, the 
things she says about my loved one— 
there?” 

Silently, they bowed their heads and 
said nothing. 

“ ‘Tell me,’ I said. 

One of the nuns said, “It is true.” 

“But what are you doing here?” I 
said. “You are Roman Catholics; that 
place is a Theosophical Institution. I 
know it by the words—the terms that 
the woman used!” 

“We all work together here,” she 
said. “And he was always kind to our 





The Call of the East 


241 


Church. We are the three sisters he 
last saw upon Earth. Do you not re¬ 
member ?” 

“Yes,” I said. “But I have no time 
to talk to you now. I must go on. I 
must find some one to help me.” 

Running down the dusty road I en¬ 
countered many faces, but they were all 
strangers to me. On, on, I ran in the 
dark, trying to find a friend. Finally I 
came to a hermit’s hut. I knocked vio¬ 
lently, and a strangely-dressed man came 
to the door, with a long, brown robe on. 

“Tell me,” I asked, “where can I find 
some one to help me?” 

“I can help you,” he said. 

“Who are you—what are you?” I 
questioned, looking at this strange dress. 
“Are you a monk? I just saw three 
nuns down the road. I suppose you 
are all Catholics here.” 

“No,” he said, “I am a Rosicrucian!” 

“Yes,—but you are so near the Theos- 
ophists and the Catholics—I do not un¬ 
derstand!” 

“It is very simple,” he said. “It is dif¬ 
ferent here, and we are all Mystics.” 




242 An Old-Fashioned Romance 

“Yes,” I replied, “but tell me—what 
shall I do about my father?” 

“It is simple, but hard, too, dear 
child,” he said. “Listen to me, and 
promise to obey me. Never cry for 
him; never talk to him; never go near 
him in your dreams, unless you can go 
to him with a smile. Never allow your 
sorrow to vibrate toward him in the 
subtle realms of the Ether. And try to 
be happy.” 

“How can I be happy when I have 
nothing but sorrow?” 

“Then practice courage—poise—self- 
forgetfulness and soon the sorrow will 
change to joy.” 

“I will try,” I said, “but it is very dif¬ 
ficult; it is almost impossible.” 

“Not when you realize that all earthly 
life is illusion! It is only the Heaven 
world that matters. This experience will 
teach you that there is no death, and 
that the real life is here—not in your 
world,” he said, tenderly. 

I walked towards the door. “Good¬ 
bye, and thank you,” I said. “You seem 





The Call of the East 


243 


strangely familiar. I have seen you be¬ 
fore, I think.” 

“Yes, yes,” he replied, “very often— 
my body is still upon Earth. It lies 
asleep at present in that great city in 
which you live; but I come here each 
night, to wait on the road, for you, for 
the lonely, undeveloped children of the 
World, such as you. Some of them are 
so frightened. They know even less 
than you, but they see the light from 
the Rosy Cross and come in and find 
rest.” 

“I did not see the light, or the Cross,” 
I said. “I was too blinded by grief.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “you did not see, 
the light or the Cross, but you sensed 
the perfume of the Rose” 

“And, Mr. Green, along through this 
dream, as though it were in the back¬ 
ground, I seemed to hear these words— 
which seemed to have some sequence to 
the vision: 

“Seek not your own life—for that 
is death; but seek how you can best 
and most joyfully give your own 




244 dn Old-Fashioned Romance 

life away—and every morning 

fresh life shall come to you.” 

“Mr. Green, I must learn the beauty 
of sacrifice. In the book that we both 
love so well, “Bagavad Gita,” it says 
that “the Gods nourished by sacrifice 
will grant you the feasts that you wish?” 

“The Gods of Sacrifice! Renuncia¬ 
tion is their motto and power is their 
symbol! They are men become Gods 
through the triumph of mind over mat¬ 
ter, beauty over ugliness, of spirit over 
everything! These Gods lie sleeping 
in the sky! They do not sleep from 
weariness, but because they are only 
awakened to a particular call. When 
the vibration of a soul on earth is felt, 
they awaken from their sleep. This 
again is the Law of Correspondence, for 
the only call that reaches them is the 
call of Sacrifice. These Gods are ter¬ 
rible in their consistency. They do not 
awaken unless the sacrifice is real, and 
neither do they quickly release their 
ambassadors upon earth, for they are 
needed to continue their magnificent 





The Call of the East 245 

work. They are relentless—they do not 
seek, but when they are sought they 
demand complete renunciation. They 
often give—they help the souls upon 
earth tremendously; but, in the end, 
after long and difficult tests of various 
kinds, after initiation into their world, 
and then they give anything one asks 
for, so long as the asking is impersonal: 
what they give must be for others— 
they serve the race and not the indi¬ 
vidual! This is their law: they give 
wisdom, revelation, material success; 
but all must be used for others! Every¬ 
thing must be transmuted into service. 
If the power they give is used selfishly, 
one is dismissed, abandoned, exiled! 
The Gods sleep again in the vast stillness 
of the Ether, in purple and magnificent 
dreams! To beseech, to plead again for 
recognition, is futile—they are like great 
planets which pass the earth imperson¬ 
ally, yet divinely and significantly, in 
symbolic power and repose. 

“Sacrifice is only a theory with me, 
but a practice with you, dear Mr. Green. 





246 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


And through this you must have great 
power. The spiritual law must grant 
most any request you make. Ask, pray, 
that I shall be able to begin this new 
life with confidence and repose, even 
if I am to be alone.” 

“You, Laura, cannot be alone. You 
are surrounded by invisible presences. 
The White Masters are with you al¬ 
ways, but my continuous wish is that 
you will be happy, in spite of your great 
loss, for you have youth, and, sometimes 
I think that is most everything.” 

When the time came to go to Egypt 
Payne Green was the last person she saw. 
Laura waved to him as the steamer 
pulled away from the shore, and looked 
lovingly toward him until his figure was 
undistinguishable. Then she stood mo¬ 
tionless looking at the place which only 
a few minutes ago had been seen and 
touched by her. The pier now could 
not be seen; only the horizon was visible. 
She looked around her and a keen, swift 
realization came to her that she was ut- 





The Call of the East 


247 


terly alone—she was among strangers. 
She was utterly detached. For a mo¬ 
ment she felt lost, sad, bewildered, and 
then she turned and looked at the strang¬ 
ers and then looked again at the sky. 
“Everything is changed,” she thought, 
but then as she looked at the sky 
again, “that is always the same. The 
Gods are there, and they claim their 
own.” 

She turned calmly and walked toward 
her room, clutching a little book in her 
hand, one which Payne Green had given 
to her. Slowly she entered her room. It 
was filled with flowers, yellow roses, 
jasmine and sun flowers. “Mr. Green,” 
she said, and as she did so it seemed 
that he answered her through the law 
which they knew, and as she caught 
sight of herself in the mirror her own 
face appeared as a stranger too, and as 
she went closer to this strange face in 
the mirror she saw that it was strange 
because there was a new expression in 
it. She saw renunciation and power. 
As she stood there among the flowers, 
she opened the little book. It was 





248 An Old-Fashioned Romance 


“Memories of Max Muller”—the story 
of a deep and unselfish love. On the 
front page of the book was written these 
words. They were words from the Pyra¬ 
mid Texts: 

“O pure one, take thy seat in the barque of the Sun, 
And sail thou over the sky, 

Sail thou with the imperishable stars, 

Sail thou with the unwearied stars.” 











I 





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I 


JUN 2 















